Homeward
by Bommie20
Summary: After the events of Year of the Dragon, Spyro struggles to fit in with the Artisans and wonders if he would have been better off raised elsewhere.
1. Chapter 1

(So… that remake, huh? It's been such a long time since I finished this story, and my writing has improved a lot since I wrapped things up. I've decided to come back and give it a good oldfashioned spitshine, so please bear with me! It was weird returning to this chapter to find it was less than 3,000 words! I usually average around 10,000 words these days. I hope that's because my writing has gotten better, and not because I just don't know when to stop...)

(Alternative title: Don't have an existential crisis in the middle of the night. Leave it until morning, like the rest of us)

* * *

Spyro was frustrated.

More specifically, Spyro was both frustrated and _tired_. The purple dragon huffed to himself, blowing a thin puff of smoke from his nostrils as the flame in his belly continued to burn into the dead of night. All four of his limbs were splayed out flat as he rested on his stomach upon a pile of glimmering gems. The jewels cast an ethereal glow throughout the spacious cave as they caught the occasion beam of moonlight that peered between the clouds. Spyro buried his head in his arms, trying to block out the reflections of light that danced at the corners of his vision. The smooth stone walls echoed with the sounds of gentle and… not-so-gentle snoring from the other dragons sharing the cave, each curled atop their own mounds of precious stones and gold. Argus let out a particularly loud snort while rubbing the leathery hide on his belly, a half-eaten watermelon clutched in one hand. Alvar gave him a swift kick to the rear.

Spyro was a notoriously heavy sleeper, and the rumblings of his fellow dragons were not usually enough to keep him from sleep. That night, the gravelly snoring was really rubbing his scales the wrong way.

As stereotypical as it may be, Spyro truly adored the sensation of sleeping on gems. The polished facets of the diamonds reflected his body heat, born from the inferno that raged within the heart of every dragon. It was like sleeping on a bed of smouldering coals that not even the frigid icicles of Ice Cavern could hope to extinguish. Sure, he occasionally got jabbed in the back if he rolled over too quickly, but it was so much more satisfying knowing that the pile of gems belonged to him and no one else. Each jewel was a souvenir of his extensive travels across the realms that even the Balloonists could only dream of. Heck, half of his pile used to belong to the Sorceress before she took a bath in molten lava. Twice. Spyro's collection couldn't hold a candle to some of the elders' hoards, but he wouldn't trade it for the world.

For some reason, his pile hadn't been as comfortable as he remembered. They kept finding the spots of tender skin between his purple scales and poking him in the side, and he _swore_ the gems had somehow become sharper. Spyro quietly manoeuvred onto his back and wriggled deeper into the mountain of rocks, stretching his wings in the hopes of finally catching some Zs. The melodic plinking of gems bouncing off the exposed stone floor reverberated across the cave as they were shed from the pile. The purple dragon had been struggling to find peaceful sleep for a while, and even the subtle glow of the diamonds couldn't lull him into slumber. If he was smarter, Spyro would say that his uncharacteristic annoyance with his treasure stemmed from the frustration that had rooted itself within his brain, but Spyro was _not_ smart enough for that.

Spyro crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut with a disgruntled scowl, determined to force himself to sleep by sheer willpower alone. If his brain refused to cooperate, then he would just **bore** himself to sleep. He began to count sheep, imagining the fluffy balls of wool leaping over a fence and off a cliff. What started as an exercise to rest his mind evolved into a fantasy of shooting down sheep in flying saucers. Spyro's soul would always belong to the gentle rolling hills of the Artisan Homeworld, but it was all a little too… peaceful for his tastes. The Gnorc's hadn't dared show their ugly faces in the Homeworld since Gnasty Gnorc was sent on a oneway trip to the infirmary, and both Ripto and the Sorceress had been fried sunnyside up. Spyro was undoubtedly relieved to discover a sense of peace slowly returning to the Dragon Realms, but his heart yearned for adventure. His wings wanted to stretch themselves and bolt off into the unknown.

Now Spyro was frustrated, tired, and _**bored;**_ a combination that never ended well for anyone involved.

The purple dragon just couldn't seem to shake the blues that were following him around like storm clouds hovering above his head. His favourite pastimes of chasing sheep off cliffs and smashing Hunter's skateboarding records just weren't hitting the spot like they used to. It was like he had an itch right behind his horns where he _just_ couldn't reach, and it was eating Spyro up inside. Sparx had noticed that his best friend hadn't been his usual perky, cocky self, but kept his mouth shut. The golden dragonfly had spent enough time glued to Spyro's side to tell when something was bothering him, but he trusted that he would open up when the time was right.

A passing comment made by an inhabitant of one of the many realms had wormed its way into Spyro's brain and refused to budge. Neither face nor name came to mind: just another member of a species he had liberated in his quest against the Sorceress. Spyro had kept his promise to Bianca, that he would try to convince the dragons to return to the Forgotten Realms before its waning magic dried up for good. It hadn't taken as much effort as he thought it would. Dragons were famously reclusive, preferring to keep to themselves for fear that their magic and gems might find their way into the wrong hands. They had Gnasty Gnorc to blame for that mindset. Spyro had already started rehearsing his apology to Bianca for when his attempts to reunite the realms inevitably failed, but it wasn't needed. The Forgotten Realms - a name that became more ironic with every passing day - was the dragons ancestral home. A permanent portal was already active between the Dragon Realms and Avalar; they had all but jumped at the opportunity to return to their original birthplace.

The legends of the dragons were long confined to the dusty pages of forgotten storybooks, so their sudden reappearance left a lot of the locals baffled. A whole bunch of fire-breathing lizards just wandered out of a portal one day and made themselves right at home, but they brought their bounty of magic with them. Long-abandoned portals sparked back to life, parched riverbeds were filled with flowing water for the first time in centuries, and even the polluted skies had begun to clear up. The reappearance of the dragons was initially a shock to the system for those who thought them extinct, but they breathed new life into what was once a world on the verge of death.

Of course, Spyro found himself at the forefront of everything. With the exception of only the oldest and crustiest dragons, Spyro was the first contact with dragon-kind that any living individual ever had. Some of the more incredulous races were reluctant to allow the dragons to encroach on what they viewed as their territory, but having the literal saviour of all worlds present made things a tad easier. Spyro was the sole reason why they weren't all slaving away in the mines of Crystal Islands under the tyrannous fist of the Sorceress. Oddly enough, that fact made the denizens a lot more accomodating. Plus, the dragons were stinking rich. It may have taken enough bribery to make Moneybags jealous, but it wasn't long before harmony returned to the Forgotten Worlds and the dragons along with it.

A gloomy expression settled on Spyro's face, the tip of his pointed tail twitching in irritation. An inhabitant of one of the many indistinct magical realms had been particularly unhelpful, remaining steadfast in their refusal to allow a bunch of enormous, horned lizards into their fray. The dragons left defeated after it became apparent that this particular world was not open to the possibility of friendship or even vague acquaintanceship. That was fair enough - they weren't obliged to welcome a whole tribe of strangers with open arms - but it had hurt Spyro's pride a little. Word of his charitable deeds had spread across the Forgotten Realms like wildfire, but it didn't necessarily guarantee the cooperation of those who crossed his path. It wasn't an overwhelming problem – there were already more than enough realms welcoming the dragons with open arms and bated breath. They would just move on to the next world.

No, that wasn't what was bothering Spyro. It was what he heard on the way out, a snarky remark muttered under someone's breath as the dragons left the realm to its own devices. A statement that was spoken recklessly yet played over and over inside Spyro's head like a broken tape recorder.

 _"Bit brutish for a so-called 'Artisan', ain't he?"_

Spyro let out a small, exasperated groan and ran his claws down his face, finally giving up on his futile attempts at sleep. He was so **dumb.** He shouldn't be so troubled by such a flippant remark, but here he was, losing sleep over some random guy in some random world that had probably never thought about the purple dragon once since he shuffled away with his tail between his legs. Why was it that his dumb, idiot brain couldn't focus on the stuff that actually mattered?

It wasn't bothering him because it was a hurtful, thoughtless statement tossed out by a person with all the tact of a cucumber sandwich. It bothered him because it was a question that Spyro had been asking himself since before Gnasty Gnorc attempted his ill-fated coup.

Spyro knew that he was hatched and raised within the tranquil fortifications of Stone Hill, but the other Artisans were almost like a different species altogether. The majority spent their time in quiet seclusion, slaving over their chosen trades and producing staggeringly beautiful works of art and that pushed the limits of craftsmanship. All kinds of collectors and aficionados travelled from across the realms for a chance to observe an Artisan in their prime. The only exception was Darius, whose impromptu bouts of deeply _'passionate'_ poetry recitals could be heard from the next Homeworld over. At least he was enthusiastic.

But Spyro... Spyro had never found his craft. He didn't have the patience to dedicate his waking hours to crafting a single art piece, only for it to sit in a dusty museum until the paint chipped away. He didn't care enough to experiment with unusual flavours and scents, creating combinations that could tantalise the senses yet would be devoured in a single gulp. He wasn't interested in the emotions captured in a soliloquy, how it could bring an audience to tears yet would slip through the cracks in their memory until the meaning was forgotten. There were days that Spyro wondered if there had been a mistake. If he was destined to be raised as a Peace Keeper or a Beast Maker, but his egg has slipped into the wrong basket.

Spyro was worried that he would never find his place as an Artisan because he was never supposed to be an Artisan at all.

The purple dragon grumbled to himself and ungracefully slid down the side of his hoard, arching his back and stretching his legs as his feet hit the frosty stone floor. Sparx's signature golden glow was merely a dim flickering lightbulb as the dragonfly was jolted awake by the commotion. He sluggishly buzzed around Spyro's head as the dragon cracked his neck with a satisfying POP, dazed from being woken so suddenly and at such a late hour. Spyro had hoped to sneak out on his own and let his best friend sleep; he should've known better. He and Sparx had a special connection after all their adventures together, and the dragonfly always knew when he was about to cavort off on another quest. Despite the rapidly swelling ocean of insecurities in the pit of his stomach, Spyro couldn't help but feel a little better knowing that there would always be someone by his side. It made things just a little less scary.

"Come on, Sparx," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear his hazy vision. "I wanna speak to someone about something. Let's go before the others wake up."

With that, the pair tiptoed out of the cave as quietly as they could. The chilly night breeze sent shivers down Spyro's spine, but it shook off the residual grogginess and filled his heart with renewed vigour. He wasn't very good at putting his thoughts into words - at least, words that had more than two syllables - but it was becoming evident that he couldn't do this on his own. His worries would keep echoing around inside his head until any other thoughts were drowned out, buried under a bottomless lake of unfounded anxiety. He needed a second opinion, and there was only one dragon that came to mind.

That was if Spyro could find him in the first place. Nestor had become notoriously difficult to track down.

* * *

For all Nestor had not been surprised when Spyro approached him, he was not expecting it to happen so soon.

The olive green was already the leader of the Artisans well before Spyro's egg was presented to him during the last Year of the Dragon. Had it really been that long already? Nestor wasn't even that old - not in dragon terms, anyway - but it seemed like only yesterday that Spyro was a little hatchling who could barely walk on four legs, nevermind two. He was a podgy little thing, with a round belly and stocky legs and a mouth that suited a dragon ten times his size. Spyro was just as unrepentantly brash and unapologetically confident as the colour of his scales, a dazzling amethyst that rivalled any of the gems in the treasury. Well, that was until he rolled around in mud or got himself covered in pine needles. Dragon hatchlings had fountains of energy at their claw tips, but Spyro seemed to have an actual deathwish.

Oh, bother, he was wandering off-topic again. Perhaps Nestor _was_ getting a little older than he admitted.

The Magic Crafters had always been the ones to care for the unhatched eggs after they were delivered by the fairies. The deep saturation of magic permeating every inch of the Homeworld proved vital to the development of the unborn dragons, and the local fauna was mostly harmless. Barring the giant metal spiders in the caves. And the insane druids that warped the very soil beneath their feet. And the gargantuan beasts in Alpine Ridge…

Magic Crafters was just as dangerous as any other Homeworld.

Nestor was not on the most... _amicable_ of terms with Cosmos, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and this had not changed even after he was sworn in as leader of the Artisans. The turquoise dragon was haughty and uptight, obsessed with order and tidiness in a world where everything had its place and there were no exceptions to the rules. Nestor knew better than to invite Cosmos over for tea and biscuits after the last time he almost had a heart attack at the state of his workshop. Nestor agreed that everything had its place, but for him, that place was usually on the floor. He could never lose his tools if they were always in plain sight instead of tucked away in a drawer to be forgotten! Cosmos had threatened to kick his rear all the way to Tree Tops and back. That was honestly pretty polite, as far as Cosmos was concerned.

Regardless of the countless times the two had butted horns, Nestor would never trust any other dragon with such a crucial role. Cosmos claimed to have no time for children of any sort, declaring their endless pools of energy to be nothing sort of perturbing and disruptive to his studies. Cosmos was not a good liar. He had a strict and almost fatherly disposition, one that demanded perfection in every aspect of his work, and that extended to the fostering of the dragon hatchlings. They would be raised in an environment in which their talents could flourish, and he would not accept anything short of success. Cosmos didn't make the lives of the baby Magic Crafters easy, but there was method to his madness. He insisted on being involved in every aspect of the hatchling's lives and had produced what some claimed to be the most powerful generation of magicians known to dragon-kind. Nestor was more of a... 'kick back and let the kids figure it out for themselves' kind of leader.

Nestor still remembered the day that Cosmos bequeathed him the egg. The Magic Crafters sorted the eggs shortly before their hatching date to determine which Homeworld should raise them, based on their inherent magic signature. Nestor didn't understand how they did it regardless of how many times the increasingly exasperated Cosmos had explained it to him; the Magic Crafters had some way of deducing where an unborn dragon's talent would lie. No dragon was ever raised by their biological parents, with the job of nurturing the pups falling on the shoulders of every dragon in the Homeworld. Nestor himself would never find out which two dragons had spawned his egg, nor would any dragon, and he had no desire to discover this fact. That fragment of information was known only to the fairies that guarded the eggs before they were ready to be sifted by the Magic Crafters. Nestor held a strong belief that the circumstances of a dragon's conception were meaningless, that they would blossom and prosper into the dragon they were always meant to be regardless of who laid the egg. It was the only thing that Cosmos had ever agreed with him on.

It was so rare for the leader of the Magic Crafters to approach anyone of his own volition, so Nestor was struck with alarm when Cosmos pulled him aside. All the clutches of eggs had already been dispersed to their respective Homeworlds, ready to be reared by those who shared their gifts. The sudden increase in prospective Peace Keepers was cause for concern on its own, prophecising a great conflict that required such a large clutch of eggs to be raised as soldiers. Perhaps someone should start keeping an eye on Gnasty Gnorc… but that wasn't why Cosmos had addressed him.

There was one egg remaining: a single, indistinct egg with purple spots that had no discerning features to set it apart from the dozens of eggs already adopted into their new communities. Nestor couldn't understand why one lone egg had caused such a ruckus, but there was a brewing uncertainty in Cosmos' eyes that forced him to take a second look.

It didn't take long before Nestor grasped the significance of the egg clasped in Cosmos' claws.

Not even the fairies who delivered the unhatched dragon knew the identity of its parents. Nestor would never pry into something so sacred, but there wasn't anything to discover. It was like the egg had materialised out of thin air. The fairies couldn't even recall the date that it arrived in the nest, ready to have its future predicted by the Magic Crafters. It had just... appeared. If there was any race more obsessed with organisation than the Magic Crafters, it was the fairies. There was no chance that they would allow a dragon egg to slip through the radar. It wasn't an error that this egg had no recorded lineage.

But there was something more worrisome than its lack of parentage. This egg was the only one not to be sorted into one of the Homeworlds because the Magic Crafters **couldn't** sort it. It had no magic signature.

It wasn't that it was weak, or that it was muddied, or that Cosmos needed another cup of coffee. The egg had no inherent magic. Cosmos described it as if he was looking at a puzzle where all the pieces had been painted white. Like trying to see without eyes, or taste without a tongue. The egg was not without magic, but the magic it held was so formless that it was impossible to describe with words. Cosmos had been sorting dragon eggs for more than a millennium, but for the very first time, he was stumped.

 _The egg had no magic signature. It didn't belong to any Homeworld._

Nestor could feel the baby dragon wriggling around inside the shell as he held it in his claws, so the egg wasn't empty. He had no idea what he was getting into by agreeing to rear a dragon that may not be an Artisan like him, but he refused to leave the unhatched pup to the hands of fate. The vigorous movement from within the egg was proof that the dragon inside had a strong will to live, and that was enough for him. He took it under his wing - so to speak - and he would deal with the consequences when they arose. Nestor was not blind to the myriad of risks that trailed his decision: a dragon raised by a community that was not their own kin could find themself without the ability to control their innate magic, which could and **had** led to disastrous results. The last dragon to fall to such a fate was Red, banished to the Volcanic Isle after developing an unhealthy obsession with Dark Magic. Nestor had never forgiven himself for allowing another dragon to suffer because they didn't know how to handle him.

When Cosmos reluctantly admitted that he had approached Nestor because the other leaders had turned the egg away, it melted his heart. The olive green dragon didn't blame the others – Titan had only just been inaugurated as leader of the Peace Keepers, so had enough on his plate already. Bruno was overly superstitious and saw the egg as an omen of great peril. Lateef was so consumed by the godforsaken Legend that he couldn't see reason. Cosmos couldn't take the risk of exposing a young dragon to such untampered magic for fear that it would spiral out of control. The Artisan Homeworld had the perfect blend of amicability and affability. Hell, the most dangerous creature was a sheep on stilts that like to dress up as a scarecrow, though Toasty was an outlier and should not be counted. Whatever lay inside that egg, the dragon that existed outside all realms of logic, would be safe with the Artisans. In that same manner, the rest of the Dragon Realms would be safe from it.

Nestor contemplated challenging Cosmos to a classic Yeti Boxing match for insinuating that a _baby dragon_ off all things could ever be a threat… but he was right. There was no consequence in the world that was worth leaving a hatchling without a family. He would be nought but the lowest of scum, lower than any Gnorc, if he had left the egg to its fate.

Nestor cracked a wistful smile and slipped his hammer into his tool belt. He had found himself aimlessly wandering Avalar and the Forgotten Realms after the portal had been opened, sick of looking at the same old hills and meadows of the Artisan Homeworld. His carpentry had grown stale, and his hands demanded a new project that would revitalise his inspiration. Nestor had found likeminded individuals in Enchanted Towers who shared his passion for construction, but they always insisted on blowing everything up. Their definition of 'art' was a little different than what he was used to. The fauns of Fracture Hills were always in need of a tool kit and a sturdy pair of hands, but Nestor _really_ hated bagpipe music…

Presently he was deep in the impenetrable jungles of Idol Springs, insistently striving to educate the foremen on the proper technique for carving idols. The green dragon had no idea how they kept managing to bring the idols to life, particularly as they weren't using magic, but there had to be _some_ way of teaching them how to create golems that weren't hellbent on a hostile takeover. So far, he had achieved... limited success. At least the idols knew how to cook. They made some topnotch hot dogs.

"How long have you felt like this?" Nestor asked, inspecting his current work-in-progress and dusting wood shavings from its chiselled face.

Spyro was vehemently avoiding eye contact, watching the elder dragon work out of the corner of his eye. Sparx cast a beautiful golden glow over the surface of the intricately painted idols that were stacked nearby, but Nestor could tell that he was listening. The dragonfly never got as much credit as he was owed, but the olive-green dragon knew that he was just as sharp-minded as his dragon.

"Just a couple of days," Spyro admitted, scratching at the canary yellow spines on his nape. "I know you always say not to pay attention to what other people have to say about dragons unless they can prove they know what they're talking about, _but…"_

Nestor sighed deeply before turning to face the purple dragon. Spyro flinched at the uncharacteristically solemn expression on the elder's face. Nestor took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Whether they were in the Artisan Homeworld or not, Nestor was still the leader, and Spyro didn't deserve to see his superior crack in the face of uncertainty. He had been preparing for the moment this topic would inevitably arise since the day that Spyro hatched, revealing his iridescent purple scales to a world that had been taught to fear them. Now that the moment was upon him, Nestor couldn't remember the words.

"Spyro, what you're feeling is normal," the emerald dragon reassured. "Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else."

Nestor was relieved at how confident his voice sounded. Spyro sat up a little straighter, his gaze intensely focused on the older dragon as his words began to sink in.

"How many Dream Weavers use scrying glasses made by the Artisans?" Nestor continued, finding his footing among the many pitfalls of scepticism. "How many Beast Makers use spells created by the Magic Crafters to harness the power of electricity? How many Peace Keepers rely on the prophecies of the Dream Weavers to plan their attacks? The worlds aren't as black and white as you're making them seem, Spyro."

"I know _that_ ," Spyro responded indignantly, squatting on his hind legs and crossing his arms. "But I've tried all the different 'artisan' forms I can think of, and I'm terrible at everything!"

Nestor caught a chuckle in his throat before it could escape and offend the young dragon, his tail waving in amusement. He couldn't argue with that. He was fairly certain that Tomas was still traumatised by Spyro's rendition of Green Sleeves on an electric guitar. Whatever Beast Maker had thought that prank would go over well had a lot to answer for. Nestor leaned against the half-formed wooden idol, resting one arm on its head as his tool belt clinked against his emerald scales.

"Alright then," he retorted. "If you feel so passionately about this whole thing, why don't I see if I can organise an internship with the other elders? I don't know if that'll necessarily resolve what you're feeling, but who knows? Maybe if you try something that _isn't_ related to us Artisans, you might find your calling."

Spyro immediately perked up, his eyes lighting up as if fireworks had been fired inside his heart. He leapt to his feet, hopping from foot to foot as if he was struggling to keep himself still.

"You'd do that?" he probed, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Sparx shot by with a whole pack of hula girls on his tail, some of which were living wooden idols. Neither dragon paid them any attention.

"Sure," Nestor replied, breaking into a grin as Spyro's infection optimism invaded his spirit. "I don't see any harm in that."

Nestor could already imagine the stern words he would receive from the other elders for even proposing such an idea, but he couldn't resist the pining of the purple dragon. The humour of the other leaders had not improved with age, nor had their looks. The elder dragon recalled how it felt to be Spyro's age, struggling to find his place in the world and feeling isolated from those who had already discovered their path. Granted, Spyro's case was a little more unique, but Nestor's heart bled for him. Spyro practically launched into the air with joy, his wings almost a blur.

"Sparx!" he yelled, immediately drawing the dramatic chase scene going on behind him to a jarring close. "Pack our bags, we're going on a vacation! And no detours this time!"

Nestor turned away and inspected his newest idol as the duo charged away to prepare, still able to hear Spyro's voice even as the dragon disappeared from sight. It was not his finest work, having been interrupted partway through, but the carving still held a captivatingly rustic charm. Plus, it didn't come to life and attack him, which was an all too common occurrence in Idol Springs. The green dragon shrugged off his toolbelt and carelessly draped it over the head of the idol, grasping its ears with both hands and dragging it towards cover. The sound of the hula girls beginning their rain dance for the umpteenth time had caught his ears, and he was loathed to leave a creation of his out in the rain.

Nestor wondered if he should take a trip back to the Artisan home; he _was_ the leader after all, and he hadn't visited the Homeworld that he was supposed to have authority over for far too long. His spirit was bursting with creative energy, but his heart longed for the comfort of his shabby workroom. The dragon elder had greatly enjoyed his sojourn across the realms, but perhaps it was time to attend to his duties. Besides, he would probably have some explaining to do when Spyro started turning up at the other leaders' doorstep.

Shaking his head in dismay, Nestor packed up his things and made his way indoors and out of the pattering rain. He tossed a friendly nod at Foreman Bud who grunted in return, desperately trying to break into the toolbox that seemed to lock itself every time he turned his back. Little did he know, Foreman Bob had slipped Nestor a gem to keep his mouth shut about how he and Foreman Max were the ones locking it. The dragon sat himself down at his makeshift workbench, propped up between two slabs of sophisticatedly sculpted concrete. The temple was not designed for a person of his size, and he could feel the tips of his horns scraping against the stone ceiling. Nestor heavily sat down at his workstation and grabbed a raven feather from a battered jar, dipping it in a small pot of glossy ink. He should probably warn the others for what was about to hit them - they would need all the luck they could get.

Just as Nestor was about to put ink to paper, he hesitated. Something had possessed his arm and refused to allow his words to take form. _Apprehension_. The last time that the emerald dragon had felt such dread was when Spyro had scurried down a rabbit hole to the other side of the world. It was not a feeling that Nestor wanted to get used to, yet it seemed to rear its head every time the purple dragon was at the centre of yet another adventure.

Nestor was not stupid. He knew of the Legend of the Purple Dragon.

Whether he believed the myths or not, he knew what it meant for the other elders, for the rest of dragon-kind. The only one for whom he couldn't anticipate the ramifications for was Spyro himself. Nestor had known it would come to this from the very moment that Spyro hatched to reveal his luminous amethyst scales. The Dream Weavers had disregarded the Legend as just that: a legend. There were many dragons with purple scales, and none had strayed from the caste system that dragon society was built on.

For the first time in his life, Nestor prayed that they were right.

Before he could stall any further, Nestor steeled his heart and forced his hand to write. What was done was done. All he had to do now was make sure that the others were prepared for what was coming. He was the leader of the Artisans, and it was about time that he acted like it.

 _Dear Cosmos,_

 _I've done something that you won't like. Please don't kill me._


	2. Chapter 2

(One of the hardest parts of writing this story was the elders. After all, how do you create a compelling character when the dragons have like three lines max?! I tweaked Cosmos' backstory to make his personality a little more consistent. Anyone who was labelled 'gifted and talented' as a child, only to struggle in adulthood because of it, should relate to his story. It comes from a personal place. I also gave Bianca more screen time because it's what she deserves, damn it!)

(Alternative title: If you can't think outside the box, just throw the whole box away)

* * *

Cosmos would swear on his own life that he did not dislike Spyro.

Anyone fortunate enough to know the turquoise dragon personally, and it was a great honour indeed, would describe him as overly dramatic, maybe a little arrogant, and definitely humourless. His many years of leading the Magic Crafters had fostered a strict demeanour that demanded perfection and excellence in his own work and that of his peers. The smallest error was nothing short of pure heresy, and he was only slightly dramatic in saying that. Even a tiny mistake in a carefully Crafted spell could have… _explosive_ results. Cosmos didn't have enough fingers or toes to count how many times the Supercharge in Wizard Peak had to be repaired because a fledgeling dragon had blown it to smithereens. He prided himself in refraining from the absurd whimsy of the Dream Weavers, the unmethodical eccentricity of the Artisans, or the barbaric voodoo of the Beast Makers. Cosmos' work was always useful, always safe, and always _correct_. Heaven help any dragon under his tutelage who attempted to cut corners or find shortcuts to success.

No, Cosmos didn't dislike Spyro. It would be entirely unreasonable to do so when the young dragon was the sole reason for his current liberation from a lifetime as a glorified lawn ornament. Rather, the reserved elder merely tolerated his presence. Spyro's unpredictable and carefree nature was as foreign to Cosmos as the back of his wing. He had an unfortunate tendency to get himself into trouble out of sheer boredom, and frequently got himself _out_ of trouble by cruising into danger horns-first. Spyro was like a solar flare trapped in the body of a puppy, and Cosmos didn't know how to handle that. He could wrap his mind around equations and correlations, wrestle with stubborn spells and eclectic enchantments, but Spyro… he was something else.

Cosmos was meditating in Cloud Temples when Spyro emerged out of the blue in his usual fashion. After the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms were established, the turquoise elder exploited the opportunity to visit the various magic-centred worlds and absorb as much knowledge as his brain could hold. Which was a lot, he was proud to say. He poured over books and scrolls with centuries worth of incantations and practices, determined to progress his understanding of magic by any means necessary. He had also been chased out of a couple portals while attempting to ' _borrow'_ the rarer scriptures for his personal library. Cosmos was intending on returning them when he was done… eventually.

The Forgotten Realms had been parched of magic for so long that the act of Magic Crafting was barely in its infancy, but _Avalar..._ Avalar was everything that Cosmos had dreamed of. From the flame golems of Skelos Badlands, to the fountains of Mystic Marsh, to the glistening gems of Glimmer. Every inch was saturated with magic, and Cosmos hungered to sink his teeth in and rip it apart so he could see how it worked. The locals found enlightenment through quiet, studious meditation, and Cosmos was eager to learn their methods. Of course, no one could claim mastery over magic in the way that a _dragon_ could, and the denizens of Avalar should be clamouring to learn from _him_ instead, but he digressed. The wizards of Cloud Temples had a truly fascinating spell that could turn organic matter into stone, and they were more than happy to welcome a most esteemed dragon into their midst.

Cosmos was sitting on an embroidered meditation mat, legs crossed while perched upon his coiled tail when Spyro barged into the temple like a raging moose. The young dragon waved a crumpled sheet of parchment in his face while his dragonfly desperately tried to avoid being squashed, proclaiming that he was going to become the most powerful wizard this side of Dragon Shores. Spyro was practically exploding with uncontrollable energy, hopping around the room and almost knocking over several piles of books in his path. Cosmos groaned in exasperation and ran his claws down his face. It seemed that his pursuit of enlightenment would have to wait for another day.

The seafoam green dragon was about to throw Spyro out of the temple before he knocked over an incense burner and set the place on fire, but his eyes were drawn to the words on the parchment. A script written by someone with an apparent artistic flair, one that Cosmos was very familiar with.

 _Dear Cosmos,_

 _I've done something that you won't like. Please don't kill me._

As he absorbed the contents of the letter, his frown continued to deepen. Cosmos had not forgotten the conundrum surrounding Spyro's egg when it was first delivered by the fairies. Nor had he forgotten the conflicted expression on Nestor's face as he held the egg in his hands while the unborn dragon tossed and turned within the shell. The green elder was typically so laid back; it was distinctly perturbing to see him so flustered. Cosmos would've happily accepted the orphaned egg into the fold of the Magic Crafters, had it not been for... _**him.**_ The situation with Elder Red spiralled out of control far too quickly, and their reaction to his obsession with power came far too late. He just couldn't rationalise the decision to expose a dragon without a distinct magic signature to the formidable energies of the Magic Crafter homeworld. They did not need another Red. They were not _ready_ for another Red.

Well, it seemed that Cosmos' hesitation was all for nought. After all, Spyro had turned up on his doorstep anyway. The purple dragon had never shown a particular affinity for the mysteries of magic, nor any interest in walking the path of the mage. He was sensitive to the energies channelled by the Powerup Gates, but so was any dragon worth his wings. Just what was Nestor thinking?! Cosmos was a very busy dragon! Why just today he had gotten out of bed _fifteen minutes early!_ A travesty!

Cosmos uncrossed his legs and pulled himself to his feet, unravelling his tail as he stood to his full height. He was so tall that the metallic spirals embedded in his horns could've touched the ceiling if he stretched. Spyro ceased his incessant racket and began impatiently tapping in place, full of vigour and raring to go. The turquoise dragon smoothed out the creases in Nestor's letter and folded it in half before resting the paper atop a stack of leather-bound books. He was intending on fitting in a quick read before lunch, but it seemed that he would not be afforded the pleasure.

"I hope you realise how unconventional this is," Cosmos mused, rubbing the scales on his chin with his thumb. "Nestor is correct in some regards, surprisingly enough, but it is highly uncommon for a dragon to specialise in more than one craft. You are an Artisan, are you not?"

Spyro's gleeful grin immediately wilted into a sullen pout. He had charged across Avalar as fast as his legs could carry him, ready to learn how to shoot lightning from his fingertips and turn Gnorcs into toads! Not to be lectured!

"But, Nestor said-"

"I **know** what Nestor said," Cosmos interrupted sharply, the golden armour plating on his shoulders catching the candlelight as he put his hands on his hips. Spyro blinked in surprise, his protests abruptly silenced. "Nestor says the same thing to every dragon that asks. I imagine he gave you the usual spiel about the universe not being 'black and white'."

Spyro nodded, his jaw still locked shut and eyes wide. Cosmos sighed and relaxed his posture. He reminded himself that Spyro was still a child, barely peeking his snout into the crux of adolescence. The purple dragon had been on so many adventures that it was easy to forget how innocent he was at heart. No, Cosmos' gripes lay with Nestor, not with the young dragon who had approached him for help.

"While his articulation leaves something to be desired, Nestor is not entirely wrong," Cosmos contemplated. "There are many applications for all disciplines across the Dragon Realms. Why, my own staff was created by one of the most talented Artisans who ever lived, rest his soul. Crafted from the finest jewels that Crystal Flight has to offer, enriched with the potent magic of Lofty Castle, and hand-sculpted with pure gold! Such a staff has been passed down from generation to generation by my predecessor's predecessor's neighbour's grandma! It also makes a fantastic back-scratcher!"

Cosmos gestured at the staff in question, which was casually leaning against a wall. It was being used to prop up a particularly rickety shelf that kept dropping its books onto Cosmos' head while he was meditating. The turquoise dragon looked back to Spyro, hoping that his enthusiastic speech had instilled a sense of wonder in the small dragon. His eyes were completely glazed over in boredom. Sparx yawned heavily.

 _"Ahem,"_ Cosmos coughed, realising that his mind had wandered offtopic. "That is to say, what has brought this all on so suddenly?"

Spyro snapped back to attention, only to recoil within himself. He rubbed his forearm sheepishly, unable to make eye contact with his elder. The purple dragon was suddenly stricken with embarrassment; so many people knew him as a strong, undefeatable hero. It was difficult to admit that he needed help, especially from someone as imposing as the leader of the Magic Crafters.

"Well…" Spyro murmured, looking everywhere except for at Cosmos. "I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fit in with the other Artisans. They're all so good at being artistic and stuff, and I'm not. We don't really… have a lot in common, I guess."

Cosmos let out a deep, contemplative sigh. His heart was once crippled by the same thoughts of ineptitude, concerned that he would never find a place among his peers. It would be easy for Cosmos to pat the purple dragon on the head and tell him to put his nose to the grindstone. Cosmos was a Magic Crafter, raised by Magic Crafters. He would typically turn away any intrepid dragon looking to branch out of their homeworld and dip their toes into the pond of magic. Those dragons only sought to further their own crafts, rather than appreciate the beauty of magic itself. Such a selfish attitude was an insult to the art of Magic Crafting. Magic was not something to be exploited, leeched away and tossed aside when it was no longer useful. It was a force to be respected and feared.

But Spyro was... something else. His intentions came from a different place, one of ambiguity and uncertainty. The purple dragon did not fit the typical description of a Magic Crafter, but that was because he did not fit the typical description of _any_ homeworld. He had no magic signature. Cosmos had to entertain the possibility that Spyro could have a repressed inclination towards magic that was never unlocked because he was raised as an Artisan. He hated to admit that Nestor had a point, but... Nestor had a point. Besides, if Spyro demonstrated any talent for Magic Crafting, then Cosmos could rub it in all the other elders' faces!

"Very well!" he proclaimed with renewed confidence. "I, Cosmos, the greatest Magic Crafter ever to walk the earth, shall impart my knowledge upon you, young dragon!"

Spyro's amethyst eyes immediately lit up like fireworks. He broke into a broad smile and was about to leap into the air with joy, but was halted by Cosmos holding out his hand to stop him.

 _"However,"_ the turquoise elder commanded. "Understand that I take my studies **very seriously.** I don't want to see any of that mischief you're so well known for."

Such a statement would've been taken as an insult by anyone else, but Spyro's chest puffed out in pride of his reputation. He stood up on his hind legs and gave a brash salute, a sober expression on his face. Sparx replicated the gesture with all three of his right limbs.

 **"SIR, YES, SIR!"**

"Now see, that's exactly the mischief that I _don't_ want," Cosmos retorted with a deadpan expression. "Meet me in the courtyard outside; I need to get some things together."

The exaggeratedly earnest expression on Spyro's face remained steadfast as he marched backwards out of the temple, his hand still glued to his forehead in a salute. Cosmos wondered if the purple dragon actually knew how to be serious. Perhaps it was just the withering winds of old age, or perhaps he had spent too much time alone in his study, but the elder's patience for the youth grew shorter every day. He could never remember springing around his tutor's workspace or hurling himself into danger when he was a child. The dragons of today had very little sense of self-preservation. Perhaps the Peace Keepers had done such an excellent job of defending the Dragon Realms that the hatchlings had no need for wariness.

Cosmos closed the lid on his incense burner, stifling the smouldering ashes inside, and rolled up his meditation mat. He lifted the stack of books and swept an unusually hefty, rustic tome from the bottom with his tail. The turquoise dragon had not browsed the contents of that book in many years, the words within intended for a hatchling newly exposed to the ways of magic. It was far beneath his academic level, but it would be more than ideal for what Cosmos had in mind.

As he sat the pile of books back down, a sheaf of parchment slipped off the top and fluttered to the ground like a falling snowflake. It was Nestor's letter. Cosmos huffed in irritation and picked it back up. He abhorred messiness, and a stray piece of paper would weigh heavily on his mind if he didn't tidy it away at once. The elder dragon intended to file the folded letter away with the rest of his papers, but he couldn't help but read its contents once more.

Cosmos had resolved to disregard the Legend of the Purple Dragon, long before Spyro entered the picture. The seafoam-green dragon was not yet hatched when the Dream Weavers transcribed the prophecy, describing a dragon with amethyst scales and unlimited potential, but he personally knew many dragons that fit such a description. Halvor, Claude, Alban... many dragons had purple hides, yet none revealed themselves to be the dragon of lore. Cosmos had come to believe that the quest to find the Purple Dragon had caused more damage than if it simply never appeared at all. It was unfair to place such lofty expectations on the shoulders of young dragons yet to find their place in the world. This was a stance that he swore to continue with the hatchlings recovered from the Sorceress.

However, as much as Cosmos wanted to deny it, Nestor was right. If there was any dragon alive that fitted the description of the legends, then it was Spyro. That was not necessarily a good thing. The young dragon had already carried the people of Avalar and the Forgotten Realms on his back, and he wasn't even an adult. Was it right to ask him to shoulder the fate of the Dragon Realms too? The path forward would be so much clearer if Spyro had fully matured before Gnasty Gnorc turned the entire population of the Dragon Realms into crystal paperweights, but fate was a fickle mistress.

Either way, what's done is done. Cosmos couldn't change the future, but perhaps he had the power to make it a little sweeter for those who would live to see it. He just hoped that Spyro was prepared for what lay ahead.

* * *

The biting wind stung the tender skin around Spyro's eyes and between his toes. Not even the smouldering coals of magic in his belly were enough to block out the chill. Cloud Temples really lived up to its name – built on such a towering mountain peak that the land below was entirely shrouded by dense mist as far as the eye could see. Spyro hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood flowing to his extremities. That the whole place wasn't buried under several feet of snow was a testament to the strength of the wizards' magic, something they were eager to mention at every opportunity. Still, the lack of snowfall did nothing to keep Spyro from desperately trying to hold in his shivers.

Cosmos was wholly unaffected by the weather. In fact, it somewhat reminded him of the Magic Crafters Homeworld. The grass was tipped with permafrost, and the caves sparkled with stalactites of crystalline ice. Even if the elder dragon found the frostbiting wind to be hard on his skin, he would never have shown it. Cosmos was as stalwart as the mountains themselves, rising above his head and reaching into the skies above. The two dragons stood in the centre of a large courtyard, surrounded on all sides by trees that clung to their foresty leaves despite the weather. If Spyro squinted hard enough, he was _sure_ he could spot Agent Zero peering down from his hideout, monitoring them for any suspicious behaviour.

"Alright, Spyro," Cosmos stated, coughing into his fist to get the young dragon's attention. "Let us begin with the basics. What do you already know about magic?"

Spyro ceased his energetic bouncing and rubbed his chin in thought. He hadn't really considered it. As far as he was concerned, magic just kinda... _happened_ to him. Whether it was through a fairy's kiss or the Powerup Gates that sprinkled the land as if they'd burst from the ground of their own volition. Magic seemed to appear whenever Spyro needed it most, and he never really offered much thought to how exactly it worked.

 _"Umm…"_ Spyro pondered. "Not a whole lot. I know that it can be used as a power source, and it's what we use to breathe fire and fly. The fairies seem to burn through a lot of it…"

Spyro trailed off into silence, struck with the realisation that he knew next to nothing about the magic that was ingrained in every aspect of their world. He sheepishly scratched behind one of his horns while offering Cosmos an embarrassed smile. The elder dragon shook his head and waved one hand nonchalantly, entirely unsurprised by Spyro's response.

"That's nothing to be worried about. A blank canvas is much easier for an artist like myself to work with, instead of one already stained with the wrong colours" Cosmos acknowledged, trying to put Spyro's uncertainties to rest. "I would much rather you know very little than your mind already be swamped with fallacies. Magic is so sensitive that even the tiniest misdirection can have disastrous results, and I don't wish to repay the kindness of the Wizards by blowing a hole in the Temple wall."

Spyro briefly imagined the catastrophe that Cosmos described, and quickly decided that he _also_ did not want to blow a hole in the Temple wall. The turquoise elder handed him a hefty leather-bound tome, tinged with royal blue dye and intricately embellished with gold leaf. The author's name was long faded past the point of legibility, and its pages were dog-eared from repeated readings. The book's previous owners had clearly loved it from cover to cover, though Spyro was almost certain that the title once read _'Magic For Dummies'._

"Turn to page 113, please."

Spyro did as he was told, the large book weighing heavily in his arms. He flicked through the pages, resisting the urge to stop at any of the earlier chapters until his amethyst eyes landed on page 113. He even skipped past the section covering the power of flight, knowledge that he would've fought the Sorceress, Ripto, and Gnasty Gnorc back-to-back for the chance to learn. Spyro skimmed over the contents of page 113, absorbing as much information as his brain could hold. He was looking at a vast array of obscure symbols and glyphs unlike anything the purple dragon had seen before. 'Create'. 'Destroy'. 'Beast'. What was he even looking at?

"What is all this stuff?" Spyro asked, glancing up at the taller dragon and raising one eyebrow in confusion.

"This _**stuff,"**_ Cosmos snorted, curling his fingers to create air quotes, "is the basis of any magic spell you could conceive."

He crouched down to Spyro's height and pointed at the symbol labelled 'Create' with a single, sharpened claw. The glyph was nothing more than a weird squiggle to the purple dragon's untrained eyes, but to a master magician like Cosmos, the sigil held a wealth of potential just waiting to be unlocked.

"When one calls upon the power of magic, one must provide directions to guide its way," the elder dragon explained, slowly pacing around the courtyard in intense concentration. "Magic must be given a purpose, must be conducted like the instruments of an orchestra. An actor requires a script; an architect requires a blueprint; magic is no different."

Spyro didn't really understand the esoteric metaphors, but he could feel the puzzle pieces slowly slotting into place within his mind. He peered at the symbols with renewed interest while Cosmos continued to devise increasingly elaborate allegories in the background.

"So... they're like road signs?" Spyro asked, peering at the scribbles scrawled across every inch of the worn pages. Cosmos spluttered as he was dragged from his monologue, realising that he had allowed himself to get a little carried away.

"I suppose that's a more simplified way of putting it," he conceded. Spyro's understanding of the subject was a little shallow, but it was an understanding nonetheless. "Consider the Superfreeze Powerup here in Cloud Temples. No matter how hard you wish for it, that Powerup will never infer the ability to spit fireballs, or grant invincibility. That's because the Powerup Gate is already ingrained with the directions for ice breath, and the magic that flows through the arches can only follow the instructions given."

Cosmos was relieved to see Spyro slowly nodding along, his face buried in the navy-blue book. The elder dragon was _severely_ simplifying the concept, but he wasn't lecturing a class of competent wizards. Spyro didn't need to understand how to tug at the strings of reality until he could shape the world in any way he chose. He probably just wanted to shoot lightning from his fingertips.

"Every spell scribed within that tome was created through trial and error," Cosmos continued, strategically leaving out the fact that this process was _mostly_ error. "When Crafting a spell, it is often necessary to fine-tune the details until the desired effect is achieved. Some dragons spend years slaving over a single spell, tweaking it piece by piece until the magic flows just right."

"Wait, _'Crafting'_ a spell?" Spyro interrupted, poking his head up from the pages with a confused expression. "Why can't I just use the spells that someone else made? At least they know what they're doing."

Cosmos gasped in dramatic shock and horror, placing one hand on his chest as if he was about to have a heart attack.

"Because we are Magic **Crafters,** Spyro, not Magic **Thieves.** The art of Magic Crafting is truly a labour of love, one that dragon society relies upon to this day! We push our understand of the universe to its limits, reaching for the heavens until there is nothing left to learn! Magic will continue to flow around us long after we're gone, but it is only through the act of Magic Crafting that we may unlock its potential and perform miracles! A dragon creates; a thief takes. Are _you_ a thief, Spyro?!"

 **"NO, SIR!"** Spyro bellowed, matching Cosmos' enthusiasm with a salute. "Also I have no idea what we're talking about!"

"Good lad!" Cosmos replied with fervour. "Well, perhaps not the part where you got lost. Just accept that not all dragons are created equal. A spell Crafted by a virtuoso, _ahem, like_ _ **me,**_ may not be useful to a Peace Keeper who just wants something that sets everything on fire. Here, allow me to demonstrate."

The seafoam dragon took a step back, his amethyst wings taut against his back as he called upon the typhoon of magic that raged within his soul. He raised both arms in front of his face and squinted in concentration. Cosmos beseeched the hundreds of thousands of glyphs he had memorised over the years, mentally thumbing through vast sheaves of information until he found the spell he was looking for. He condensed every spark of willpower into one great burst, forcing his magic to flow through his heart and down his arms until it erupted from his fingertips. A shimmering transparent globe materialised around the elder dragon, slightly distorting his appearance as the crystalline surface refracted light as if cut from the most beautiful gemstones. Spyro wordlessly dropped the tome to the ground as if struck by awe at the sight of the iridescent orb that encased the magician.

Satisfied that he had proven his point, Cosmos snapped his fingers and dismissed the shield. The sphere shattered and crumbled to the ground as the fragments disappeared into a fine dust. The only indication that a spell had ever been cast was the ring of grass that was now stripped of ice. A round of polite applause echoed down from the Temple as a small crowd of wizards gathered to watch the dragons in action.

"That was a spell I Crafted almost a decade ago," Cosmos explained, crossing his arms behind his back and puffing out his chest out in pride. "It uses a complicated array of sigils to manifest a barrier that will deflect any blow, physical or magical. It repels projectiles, wards against hexes and curses, defends against annoying Mothers-In-Law, you get the gist. Now, as you can imagine, this spell is _very difficult to perform._ A dragon whose talents lie... _**'elsewhere'**_ may have more luck with a simpler spell that merely provides an extra layer of armour to their scales. This is why we don't just copy the spells that have already been Crafted. By Crafting your own, you can play to your strengths rather than struggle to fill the boots of those who came before you."

Cosmos bent over and retrieved the ancient book from the ground, dusting off the cover and handing it back to the stunned purple dragon. Spyro silently accepted the tome, though his eyes remained lost in a pool of wonder and excitement.

"I've explained the basics, and I've given you a brief demonstration," Cosmos explained to the younger dragon. "Now, I want you to take everything that you've seen and Craft a spell of your own. It doesn't have to be that original, or even particularly useful, but it must be _yours_. You must find the value of your own abilities; create something that only _you_ could have created. Then, return to me and show me what you've got. Show me the spark that brought Nestor over to your side."

Spyro was briefly overwhelmed by the monumental task laid before him, but the words of encouragement had reignited the fire in his belly. Cosmos was asking a lot of him, to go from total ignorance to bending the flow of magic to his whims in one enormous leap. The elder dragon must have a lot of confidence in his abilities, and Spyro was determined to prove him right. He didn't understand half of what Cosmos was saying, but his passion was infectious.

"You got it!" Spyro affirmed, nodding his head vigorously. "I'll make you proud!"

Cosmos couldn't help but break into a small smile as Spyro scampered off with the royal blue tome tucked under one arm, dragonfly in tow. The young dragon's pep was something to be admired; his zest for life was just as powerful as ever, despite everything he had been through. Cosmos didn't doubt that Spyro would dedicate every ounce of his enthusiasm to his task. He _also_ didn't doubt that his attempts at Magic Crafting would fail. Cosmos wouldn't do the purple dragon the dishonour of dismissing his accomplishments, but Spyro didn't have enough inherent magic for sustained flight, never mind a complicated spell. If he followed the guidelines in that book, he might be able to come up with a simple cantrip or trick, something to satisfying his craving for knowledge. If he threw himself into the fray headfirst and tried to bend the laws of the universe to his will without the experience to back it up, it would blow up in his face. Either way, he would learn a valuable lesson.

Spyro may not walk away with a detailed knowledge of Magic Crafting, but he _would_ walk away having discovered something about himself. As the leader of his Homeworld, that was all Cosmos could do. Besides, he doubted that Spyro would keep him waiting long.

* * *

Spyro really, _really_ wanted to flip back to the chapter covering the magic of flight. He could practically hear the ink calling his name, urging him to abandon his insurmountable assignment and sink his fangs into something that he could actually wrap his head around. Fortunately for Spyro, he was so unbelievably stubborn that he refused to back down, no matter the odds. He would conquer the art of Magic Crafting, and Cosmos would have no choice but to admit that he was the better magician!

Spyro began by trying to determine what spell would be the most useful. It was super tempting to create something flashy, something that would make everyone's jaws hit the floor, but the purple dragon had a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that his adventures were not yet over. Trouble seemed to find him at every turn, and the Dragon Realms had been _far_ too peaceful. Spyro was counting the days until he found himself dragged through a portal and dropped into another world that needed saving from an eccentric dictator. It wouldn't be the first time. Or the second. Or the third...

Spyro did his best to remain focused, but his mind inevitably began to wander. He imagined himself in a tall pointed wizard hat zapping egg thieves with lightning that shot from his fingertips. He envisioned using magic to transform Sparx into a **MECHA-DRAGONFLY** who could **BZORP** baddies out of the sky with his **MIND RAYS.** Before Spyro knew it, he had wasted half the day staring at the sky and giggling to himself. The strange, squirming sigils in Cosmos' book just turned the purple dragon's brain to mush. He had no idea that there were so many rules to follow, so many rivers and valleys to navigate. To Spyro, magic was something that naturally happened around him, and he was just along for the ride. As soon as he started applying terminology and calculations, all fun drained away and he quickly became bored. Being bored was what got him into this mess in the first place!

Spyro needed someone with an analytical brain, who thrived when picking things apart to see how they ticked. Someone who could dive into the smallest details and find joy within the inner machinations of the universe. Someone with big smart brain, not big dumb-dumb brain like him.

Thankfully, Bianca was _much_ easier to find than any of the dragon elders. While they had spread themselves out across the Realms on a glorified vacation, Bianca had taken command of the Sorceress's castle in Midnight Mountain. Spyro thought that the rabbit would've preferred to leave the bad memories locked away in the abandoned palace, to move on to greener pastures where she could be free of the Sorceress' shadow. But Bianca's heart was a lot stronger than most gave her credit for. She believed that the instruments and equipment that once rained terror down upon the Forgotten Realms could be repurposed. She could take the potions and gemstones and anything else that wasn't bolted to the floor and turn the wicked witch's magic into a force for good. Bianca could undo all the damage that she had been instrumental in causing.

Speaking of which, Bianca was currently nose-deep in the dusty pages of the dragon tome, reading with blinding speed and absorbing every fraction of information that she could. She skimmed through pages of filler and fluff, hunting for the juiciest morsels of knowledge that lay within the faded ink. The Sorceress only let her read spellbooks intended for children, hoping to prevent her latent magical powers from blossoming so that Bianca would remain under her heel. The hefty tome hurled at her by the repulsive lizard along with a demand to create Buzz and Scorch was the highest level of magic she had even been exposed to. Not only did she now have the witch's extensive library to herself, but she was learning from the masters themselves! The very nexus from which all magic sprung! _The dragons!_

"So, uhh... Bianca?" Spyro said with a slightly concerned expression. "About the spells."

Bianca almost jumped out of her skin as she was abruptly pulled back down to solid ground. She had been so engrossed in the teachings of the book, charms and hexes that she never could've comprehended, that her head had drifted off into the clouds. Shards of suspicion had wormed their way into her heart when Spyro kicked down the castle door and demanded her attention right that second or he was gonna explode. It wasn't that long ago that they were mortal enemies, and her butt was still sore from the time he torched her cloak in Sunrise Spring. Thankfully, the purple dragon was just as willing to forgive and forget as he was to blast bad guys halfway to Glimmer. Spyro freely handed over centuries of dragon magic without a second thought, and Bianca just couldn't help herself.

"Oh, right! Sorry," Bianca meekly apologised, quickly flicking through the tea-stained pages until she found her place. "I got a little distracted. What sort of spell do you have in mind?"

"Well," Spyro replied, cautiously eyeing up a set of bubbling flasks that belched the occasional cloud of incandescent gas. "I was wondering if you could teach me how you summoned that butterfly."

If Spyro hadn't been poking around Bianca's _**very delicate equipment**_ and leaving fingerprints all over her beakers, he would've seen the look of shock on her face. That cursed experience ranked amongst her top ten most embarrassing moments, a list that was a mile long. Bianca had exhausted her magic reserves by accidentally turning a fluffy bunny into a two-eyed, two-eared, walking, purple rabbit eater. That misfire _also_ made her top ten most embarrassing moments. Hunter jumped in to save the rabbit mage, despite the myriad of reasons to leave her to her fate, and her magic was so depleted that her attempt to summon a dinosaur to pound them into the dirt only resulted in a single, shimmering butterfly. Which Sparx then ate. At least someone appreciated her efforts.

If Spyro had been a cruel, devious villain, Bianca would've suspected that his innocent request was an attempt at subterfuge. A way to remind her that her mistakes were not forgotten, hanging over her head like ominous stormclouds. As Spyro flicked a jar with a loud _PLINK_ only to hop back in fright as the volatile contents spat back in anger, she realised that she was giving the purple dragon _way_ too much credit. He was a little tactless, but Bianca could see the genuine interest in his eyes. She hadn't penned Spyro as a mage or warlock, but he had surprised her before, and she didn't doubt that he would do so again.

"Alright, I can give you some pointers," Bianca relinquished, setting the weighty tome down with a dull **thud.** "But _only_ if you stop touching my stuff."

Spyro's claw was less than an inch away from poking a hungry-looking carnivorous plant with more teeth than brain cells. He slowly retracted his finger and shuffled away from the shrub, staring around in the room in feigned innocence. Bianca shook her head in disbelief but couldn't stop a small smile from creeping across her face. She grabbed a rolling ladder and wheeled it across the room, scampering up the wooden rungs until her ears almost brushed the crooked ceiling. Sparx curiously flitted around her head, casting a warm golden light over the crammed bookcase that illuminated the spines of the books. Bianca's fingers danced over the tomes like they had done a hundred times before, searching for a single unique book within a labyrinth of volumes. She recognised the worn, patchy cover as soon as she touched it and snatched the book from its cradle with a triumphant cheer. The books were so tightly packed into the bookcase that the gap left behind was immediately swallowed up by the surrounding volumes, leaving no trace behind.

"Here we go," Bianca declared, zipping down the ladder and blowing away a layer of caked-on dust that had accumulated on the dull grey cover. "This is the notebook I kept when I was learning from the Sorceress. She wouldn't let me touch her books in case I stole them, so I wrote my own notes. I'm sorry for the handwriting. I didn't think that anyone else would ever see them."

Judging by Bianca's description, Spyro expected to find a messy, illegible scrawl of chicken scratch. Instead, her notes were written in perfect cursive and every 'i' was topped with a little star. She had even colour-coded each chapter for easy navigation. Cosmos would like her a lot. Bianca turned to the first page that was tagged with a purple sticker and crouched down so Spyro could read along with her. The page was titled **"WAYS TO KILL THAT STUPID DRAGON"** in extravagant curly letters. Bianca chuckled nervously and covered the title with her thumb.

"Umm, just ignore that. I was going through a lot," she explained while Spyro shot her a judgemental glance. "This is the spell I was trying to use. I wanted to summon a T-Rex from Dino Mines and drop it on your head, but you know how that turned out."

"Yikes, I'm glad it didn't go as planned!" Spyro exclaimed, wincing at the thought of being buried under several tonnes of dinosaur. Where did they get all those guns anyway?! "So, why didn't it work? Not that I'm disappointed or anything."

"Well, there are two reasons," Bianca patiently explained. "Accidentally turning that rabbit into a monster cost me a lot of energy. Dragons have their own internal reservoir of magic that constantly refills, though it takes time. I don't have that benefit, so I spend a few minutes every day meditating to fill up my stores."

"That makes sense," Spyro nodded. "The wizards in Cloud Temples and Mystic Marsh spend a _lot_ of time meditating. I guess that's why."

"Mmm," Bianca hummed in agreement. "Well, when I tried to summon a monster that could use your horns as a toothpick, I had already used up most of my magic. I didn't have enough left for something that size. The butterfly was all I could manage."

Spyro rubbed his chin in thought. He had never considered how dragons could produce a pillar of fire with little effort or fly for hours without tiring. The source of his flame breath was the swirling, churning furnace in his belly, a tornado of fire that never dimmed or faltered. Spyro realised how much life must _suck_ for those without an unlimited supply of magic in their stomachs. No wonder the Forgotten Worlds had been on the verge of blinking out of existence. To them, magic was a finite resource, something to be treasured and guarded. For the dragons, it was no different than the air they breathed, an inexhaustible fountain of energy that clung to every blade of grass and drop of water.

Spyro wondered if he had been taking the power of magic for granted this whole time.

"That's not all," Bianca continued. "Magic can only do what its told. That's what all these symbols are for. They're like... road signs, I guess. They tell the magic what to do and how to do it. While casting a spell, you hold an image in your mind of the symbol corresponding to the effect that you're trying to create. They stop you from getting distracted."

Well, Spyro was grateful for anything that kept his mind from wandering into the realm of daydreams. Bianca pointed at a specific symbol, a circle with curved horns.

"This is the rune. It indicates that the magic should summon a 'beast'. Summoning a creature from elsewhere is significantly easier than trying to create a new one from scratch. Some spells use only one or two symbols, and some use dozens. It's best to try and keep things simple and clean, so you don't get caught up in all the details."

Bianca sat back on the edge of her workbench, stained with unidentifiable fluids and creaking noisily with the movement. She crossed her arms and let out a remorseful sigh. If the Sorceress had ever discovered such a monumental slip-up, she would've been the subject of Pablo's next 'real-time, four-dimensional performance art' as _'Hideous Exploding Witch, Number Ten'._

"That's where I went wrong. The spell I used was _too_ simple. I should've specified what _type_ of beast I wanted. There's a big difference between a gunslinging T-Rex and a butterfly, but magic doesn't know that. That's my bad."

Spyro hummed in understanding. He appreciated that Bianca was phrasing the concepts in simpler terms. Cosmos' explanation was significantly more in-depth - and probably more correct - but the purple dragon wasn't aiming for a full academic grasp on the power of magic. Bianca just hoped that her interpretation was even marginally correct. The art of Magic Crafting was lost to the annals of history after the dragons were banished by the Sorceress. Not only did they take their magic with them, but they also took their techniques and knowledge. The residents of the Forgotten Worlds had a millennia to practice and perfect the spells they already knew, but no magician worth their salt was dedicating their lives to creating _new_ spells. Without the experience and methods of the dragons, they might as well be children trying to build monuments out of lego.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Spyro exclaimed, looking at the patchwork notebook before flicking back to Cosmos' tome. "These symbols are all different!"

Sure enough, a circle intercepted by a cross in one book was a five-pointed star in the other. Three parallel lines in one book was an hourglass in the other. The descriptions were the same, but the shapes used to represent them were drastically different in each volume.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me too much," Bianca stated nonchalantly. "There are over one thousand years of progress recorded in these books, so they were bound to diverge at some point."

"Aww, _man..."_ Spyro groaned, face-planting himself in frustration. "Why does this have to be so complicated?!"

"I suppose it doesn't _have_ to be complicated," Bianca mused, rubbing her furry chin in thought. "The appearance of the sigils doesn't actually matter. They're just a way of communicating with magic so you can direct it to your will. You can speak any words you like, but the _intention_ of those words will never be lost. If you believe in something with all your heart, then the magic will hear your voice. Kinda poetic, don't you think?"

Spyro pouted in dissatisfaction and handed the notebook back to Bianca. She squeezed the book into a gap on a lower shelf of the bookcase, one that magically appeared to allow the pages to be absorbed by the cabinet once more. The Sorceress never bothered to haul her fat behind up a ladder to reach the top shelves, and they were littered with Bianca's illicit scribblings. Now that the witch was dead, the books could find their rightful place among the swathes of tomes, as they always should have.

"Maybe instead of focusing on the specifics, you should just find what works for you."

Spyro raised his eyebrows in surprise before a spark of determination ignited within his soul. This whole business with 'sigils' and 'glyphs' was flying _**way**_ over his head, but Bianca made an excellent point. His intuition had gotten him into and out of tricky situations before, and his gut feeling had never led him astray. If the path he was being directed down was foggy and hazy, perhaps he just needed to find a route of his own. Even Cosmos has said so: _"what works for one dragon does not necessarily work for another."_ The foretellers of Magic Crafting had given Spyro the tools, but it was for him to discover how to use them.

"Thanks, Bianca," Spyro nodded with a grin. "That actually helped a lot! I promise that when I'm a world-famous wizard, I'll credit you in my memoirs!"

"Oh, really?" Bianca laughed as Spyro puffed out his chest with bravado. "Well, I appreciate it."

Bianca barely had the time to say goodbye before the purple dragon was out the door, slamming it shut behind him with a **THUD** that rattled the delicate glassware. She would've paid good money to be a fly on the wall while Spyro was struggling to control the stubborn nature of magic. It required a gentle touch, words of motivation and coercion to convince the volatile energies to obey. If the purple dragon tried to grab the bull by the horns, he might just blow one of his own horns off. Bianca hadn't known Spyro for long, but she could tell how strong-willed he was when he put his mind to something. The entire universe could be against him, and he would still find a way to emerge victorious. Perhaps he lacked the knowledge, or the aptitude, or the natural talent, but Bianca couldn't help but believe in him.

Spyro could throw thousands of years of knowledge to the wind, and Bianca wouldn't doubt that he'd push through. He would find a way. He always did.

* * *

Cosmos had expected Spyro to return with the utmost haste. Cosmos had _not_ expected him to show his face less than a day later.

The turquoise elder was engaging in the most beloved pastime of the wizards of Cloud Temples: watching the rams knock each other out cold. Cosmos had no idea how the sheep survived natural selection. He took a sip of camomile tea and swilled it around his mouth, coating his tongue with herbal flavour before swallowing. The spectacle was rather vulgar, but it kept his mind occupied. Cosmos had returned to his meditation after Spyro scampered off into the wilderness, but his mind refused to settle. Every snowflake falling from the snow-laded trees, every footstep that echoed down the polished halls; sounds that he could typically blot out were now intensely aggravating.

Cosmos' regal and stalwart disposition had chipped at the corners, revealing the worries that nipped at his ankles. The more he thought about Spyro, the more concerned he became. Had he prescribed too tricky a task? Should he have been more hands-on, rather than allow Spyro to run around of his own accord? Did he forget that, despite all the conflict that Spyro had lived through, he was just a child? Cosmos hated second-guessing himself; he was an esteemed elder, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and a _damn good_ magician. Spyro just had that effect on people. He existed so far outside the tidy little boxes that the dragons had sorted themselves into.

Cosmos had almost been relieved when the purple dragon trotted into the temple, grinning from ear to ear and accompanied by his ever-patient dragonfly. _Almost._ The sun was barely kissing the horizon, casting Cloud Temples into a sweet vanilla twilight. Spyro had been gone for maybe a couple hours at most. The only reason that Cosmos could fathom for such an expedient return was an admission of defeat, but the spring in Spyro's step told him otherwise. The purple dragon announced that he had **"MASTERED THE ART OF MAGIC CRAFTING"** at the top of his lungs, giving some of the meditating monks a heart attack in the process. Somehow, Cosmos doubted that.

Spyro was springing up and down with barely restrained excitation as Cosmos joined him in the courtyard, cup of tea still in hand. The wizards had heard of the purple dragon's exploits and had gathered to watch, though it was difficult to overlook him with all the ruckus he was creating. The envy in the air was palpable: any one of the mages would've sold their mother for a chance to tutor a dragon in the ways of magic. It was an exalted position, one that Cosmos would never trust in the hands of another. The turquoise dragon took his work **very seriously,** and he hoped that Spyro would do the same.

"Come on, come on!" Spyro insisted, eyeing up the receding daylight. "Wait 'til you see this!"

"Are you absolutely certain?" Cosmos queried, peering down his snout as Spyro's pacing threatened to wear a hole in the stone paving. "I was not expecting you back so soon. I will judge you _harshly_ if I find that you've cut corners."

"Don't worry about it," Spyro shrugged, dismissing Cosmos' probing with a cocky smirk. "I got some pointers from someone who knows _way_ more about this than I do. I'm sure you'll be impressed with what I've come up with!"

Cosmos raised an eyebrow, his pride slightly bruised by the knowledge that the purple dragon had approached someone else for help. Perhaps he was intimidated by the elder's prowess and esteem! Cosmos nodded and gestured for Spyro to proceed, his fingers still wrapped around the warm porcelain cup in his grasp. He leaned back on his muscular tail and crossed one leg over the other. This was Cosmos' favourite part. Sometimes his eyes would be treated to an exuberant display of magical talent that he hadn't expected. Sometimes he watched his student become engulfed in a cloud of smoke as they accidentally set themselves on fire. Either way, Cosmos would gain the purest glimpse of his student's potential and creativity. He was very interested to see what Spyro had to offer.

Spyro raised up onto his hind legs, a stance that he wasn't old enough to be comfortable with yet, and rubbed his palms together. The warmth generated by the friction couldn't hold a candle to the fire in his belly, but the sensation was familiar enough to ignite the spark of magic in his soul. The purple dragon had taken Bianca's words literally: _'if you believe in something with all your heart, then magic will hear your voice.'_ His brain just wouldn't hold onto the thousands of symbols written in Cosmos' tome, but perhaps it didn't need to. Rather than trip and stumble over the small details, Spyro cast aside the runes and focused on his gut feeling. He found the glyphs to be confusing and restrictive. They were useful to mark the path, but they meant nothing if Spyro couldn't stay on course. He would have to wrest control over the maelstrom of magic by sheer willpower alone.

Besides, his last attempt hadn't exactly... _'gone to plan'._ He hadn't been able to stop thinking about how Bianca tried to summon a dinosaur, and... well. Spyro wanted to be through a portal and on his way before Cosmos discovered the results of his last practice session.

He shook that thought out of his head and focused on the space between his palms. Spyro imagined a roaring inferno compressed into a gap so small that not even Sparx could wriggle through. Cosmos could sense the droplets of magic coalescing between his fingers like tiny bursts of light. He raised one eyebrow in amusement and took another sip of tea. The magic gathering in Spyro's palms was faint and unfocused like a ship without an anchor, but it was there. The energy was nowhere near enough to affect the world around them, but at least it hadn't fizzled away into nothingness.

Spyro fixated on the burning magic in his palms, imagining lava running down his arms and out his fingertips. He could practically feel sparks of electricity shooting between the tips of his horns. An intense tingling overtook his upper half, but Spyro persisted. He ignored the discomfort and pushed through with every ounce of might in his muscles. As the pulsing heartbeat of magic reached his claws, Spyro opened his arms and **slammed** his hands together as hard as he could.

...

Nothing happened.

Spyro looked at his palms. The pins and needles that once sunk into his skin rapidly faded as the flow of magic petered away into nothingness. Just as quickly as the reservoir of energy pooled within his chest, it drained away as if sucked up by the air around him. Why had it not worked? Did he not put enough magic into the spell? Did he not focus hard enough on the image of a butterfly? Spyro was _so sure_ that he had this whole 'Magic Crafting' thing figured out; to find that his efforts came to nothing was soul-crushing. He remembered Cosmos' words, how not every dragon was born with an innate talent for magic. Perhaps Spyro just wasn't cut out for this?

Spyro shook his head in determination. He hadn't come all this way to give up at the first hurdle. He wanted to find his place in the Dragon Realms, and he refused to be defeated so easily.

"Please, let me try again," he pleaded of Cosmos, who continued to silently judge his performance. "I was so close!"

Cosmos considered Spyro's display with a neutral expression. His achievement was impressive for an Artisan, yet floundered into comparison to even the youngest Magic Crafter. The fragile puff of magic wasn't nearly enough to accomplish anything of significance, but there was no clear direction to Spyro's spell anyway. Cosmos wasn't even sure what the purple dragon was trying to pull off. As always, his prediction had been proven correct. The art of Magic Crafting would remain an elusive mystery to those without the right blood.

Still, Spyro's tenacity was to be admired. His willingness to pick himself up and dust himself off after a failure was a trait that Cosmos wished all his students possessed.

"Go ahead," he replied, "But this time, put more thought into the outcome of your spell. You must keep your intentions in mind at all times, lest the flow of magic slip right through your fingers."

Spyro firmly nodded and closed his eyes again. He could see it clearly in his mind's eye. A single butterfly, with fragile wings that reflected pink and gold like the petals of a Dahlia. Its antennae twitched as it searched for the sweet pollen of a nearby flower, carried on a gentle summer breeze. The butterfly was so real that Spyro could almost reach out and touch it, and it was **definitely not a dinosaur.** Soon, he would be able to do just that. Spyro would summon a butterfly from the far reaches of Avalar. He refused to consider failure as an option.

Spyro would prove to Cosmos, the wizards, and anyone else that dared belittle him that he could do anything he put his mind to. He wasn't _'just'_ an Artisan. He was a _**dragon.**_

As Spyro found a new hope within himself, a surge of flame rushed up from his belly as if ignited by his determination. It filled his whole being until it felt like his horns would shoot off like fireworks. Spyro's magic had heard his voice, and this time there was no hesitation. Once more, he opened his arms and _**SLAMMED**_ his palms together with a resounding thunderclap that sent shockwaves through his bones. The purple dragon could almost hear a little voice in his head, a tiny whisper that spoke with hushed words. He hadn't memorised any symbols or glyphs, but it didn't matter. His magic understood.

As soon as Spyro's palms collided, the wave of energy vanished without a trace. He froze in place, worried that it was all for nothing. That he had just embarrassed himself in front of Cosmos and the wizards of Cloud Temples. That his Artisan blood was as rigid and unyielding as the earth below his feet. Spyro swallowed the lump in his throat, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes to face the music.

Before his face fluttered a single pink and gold butterfly.

* * *

Cosmos remembered the first spell he Crafted. The centuries had been cruel to his memories, but the seafoam dragon still recalled that moment as clear as day. He had already been singled out among his peers as a prodigy, a savant in the making. He was the master of multiple breath types at the age that most dragons would still be spitting coals. He earned his wings while others were struggling to get off the ground. It was immediately apparent that Cosmos was destined for a bright future, and nothing made him happier than the appraisal of those around him. Every milestone he surpassed was another rung on the ladder leading to greatness.

Cosmos was addicted to praise. He longed for the approval of his elders and the adoration of his equals. He was ravenous for knowledge, pushing his innate talents to the extreme in his search for perfection. He devoured the words immortalised in the academy library, reciting millennia of research to memory until there was no more space in his brain. While other dragons were speeding around Sunny Flight or practising Supercharge jumps in Tree Tops, Cosmos was knee-deep in books and scrolls. While others were sandboarding in Cliff Town or antagonising the demon puppies in Dark Passage, Cosmos was brewing potions and elixirs. His peers could waste their livelihood messing around and playing like children. _He_ was going to rise to the top, and he felt no remorse in leaving the others behind.

Before Cosmos knew it, he had no friends. His thirst for knowledge, for supremacy, had estranged him from the other dragons.

Suddenly, Cosmos was no longer receiving the praise he was so insatiably hungry for. His spells once filled the other dragons with wonder, but now they looked at him with disdain. He was 'aloof', 'unapproachable', 'trying too hard'. Cosmos wanted to prove that he was still worthy of acclaim, but his efforts only came across as arrogant and underhanded. Something had changed, but he didn't know what. His books couldn't provide any concrete answers, and why should they? Communication skills were learned by interacting with those around you, not by barricading yourself in a library until night turned into day. Everyone else had already learned how to talk to others, and Cosmos had missed the memo. His lust for impeccability had driven a wedge between himself and the very dragons he sought to impress.

Cosmos liked books more – books didn't change their words after more than one reading. He could determine their contents just by looking at the front page. He could put them down and pick them back up right where he left off. Dragons weren't like that, and he couldn't understand them.

Eventually, Cosmos stopped making an effort. It was easier to allow himself to be swept deeper into his academic studies, pushed by the ungodly high expectations of his teachers. The turquoise dragon had made a reputation for himself as a wunderkind of magic, and now his exemplary performance was _mandatory._ This landed him an apprenticeship under the currently-reigning Magic Crafters elder; a bitter but wise old dragon with one bad eye and a terrible limp, whose mind was sharp enough to cut through diamond and a tongue to match. He was a sour old coot with an expression like he was sucking on lemons, and Cosmos revered him. He doted on every word, filling notebooks with scrawls and scratchings until he ran out of paper. Finally, this was someone that he could impress. He could renew the flow of praise and accolades that he had missed for so long.

Cosmos' first spell was a teleportation spell. He brushed aside the usual cantrips and charms, wards and enchantments, and jumped straight to the hard stuff. He wanted to show the elder that he, and he alone, was deserving of his attention. That none of his other students deserved to be mentioned in the same _breath._ What use was a spell to conjure a brief gust of wind, or manifest a small raincloud, or make pigs dance with music? No, Cosmos was not going to waste his mentors time with such boorish drivel. His work was always useful, always safe, and always _correct_. He was consumed with the desire to prove himself above any other dragon before him and leapt straight into the deep end without knowing how to swim.

Metaphorically, of course. Everyone knows that dragons can breathe underwater.

Cosmos daren't try a newly formulated teleportation spell on himself, not unless he fancied losing a limb or two. His subject was a crispy, ruby-red apple pilfered from the dining hall when the draconic lunch lady wasn't looking. The apple was perfect for his experiments - small in size and light in weight, easy to lift and easy to throw. In fact, perhaps a little _too_ easy. The fruit ended up splattered across the wall as soon as Cosmos' magic touched its succulent skin. Whoops. Still, he refused to admit that he was out of his depth. The turquoise dragon tried again and again, using fruits of all different shapes and sizes, determined to find the **one** item that reflected his magic in the way he wanted. The kitchen staff had to start locking the pantry door at night. They never did catch the 'Fleet-Footed Fruit Thief'.

When the time finally arrived for Cosmos to present his carefully Crafted spell, he was left ashamed. Not a single attempt at creating a working teleportation spell had succeeded. He had nothing to show for his week of toil, other than a newfound sense of modesty and a passionate hatred of fruit. Meanwhile, the dragons that Cosmos once bit his thumb at were changing the colours of their scales, blowing paper planes around the room, or creating snowballs to shove down each other's robes. Cosmos saw such tricks as below his inflated ego, but the truth of the matter was that his peers had succeeded where he had failed. Even their tiny achievements were miles ahead of his own, encaged as he was within the vice-like claws of his own hubris.

To say that his master was displeased would be an understatement of the highest magnitude. The elder had accepted Cosmos as one of his apprentices on the grounds of his exceptional track record, yet the turquoise dragon had crashed and burned before him. Cosmos was relegated to kitchen duty, a job for only the most disobedient students, but his time scrubbing dishes gave him a new perspective on life. He was so eager to exceed the expectations planted on his shoulders that he had neglected the basics. He was trying to build a skyscraper without first laying the foundations.

If there was one thing that Cosmos had learned, it was that the tallest tree was only as good as its roots. The basics of Magic Crafting may be boring and uninspiring, but they were the building blocks of miracles. Cosmos was the obvious successor after his master passed away, taken out by a chunk of over-cooked vulture steak from Dry Canyon of all things, and he accepted the role without hesitation. As leader of the Magic Crafters, Cosmos would not allow his pupils to make the same mistakes that he once did.

He saw a lot of himself in Spyro, much to his neverending disdain. The purple dragon had the same careless disregard for established rules and regulations that Cosmos himself once wore like a medal. He approached magic like a beast to be tamed, rather than a tool to be used. It was no wonder that Spyro had exerted himself so severely, even though he was only summoning a single, tiny butterfly. Cosmos could sense the sheer magnitude of magic wasted as it leaked out between the young dragon's fingers like smoke, dissipating into his surroundings without direction or form.

It crossed Cosmos' mind that Spyro could've summoned something much larger and much more **dangerous** with that amount of magic.

The purple dragon stared in shocked silence at the butterfly he had manifested before leaping into the air with a whoop of triumph. The wizards gave a rapturous round of applause as Spyro overcame his self-doubt in the most spectacular fashion. He lowered his horns towards Sparx, and the two shared a victorious headbutt. The butterfly was disoriented and confused, wrenched from a lush pasture and plopped into a frost-bitten temple in the blink of an eye. Spyro had set out to discover if he had been raised by the wrong dragons, born a Magic Crafter but reared by Artisans. Cosmos wasn't entirely certain that his endeavour had cleared anything up, but one thing was definite. Spyro had proven him wrong.

There was just one thing bothering Cosmos, despite the resounding admiration of the wizards. Spyro's 'little' outburst of magic had caused hundreds of green shoots to burst through the cracks in the paving stones, piercing through layers of frigid snow and ice. Despite the chilly winter air, Spyro now stood in the centre of a ring of blossoming flowers.

"So," Cosmos stated, stepping forward as the crowd grew quiet around him. "Please tell me how you formulated your spell."

Spyro sat back on his hind legs, his boastful grin quickly turning into a sheepish smile.

"I, uhh... can't," he admitted. "I tried my best, but I just couldn't remember any of the symbols in your book. In the end, I just thought _really hard_ about summoning the butterfly and hoped that was enough."

Cosmos' face flickered through conflicting emotions as he processed Spyro's words. He was offended that Spyro would approach him for help, yet cast aside his advice as if the purple dragon thought he knew better. He was upset that the art he had dedicated his whole life to was wasted on someone with such clear potential. He was thankful that Spyro had come away from his shenanigans unharmed. He was proud that his teachings had reached the heart of a dragon who would otherwise never open his mind to the wonders of magic. Cosmos' right eye twitched. He was too old for this.

Eventually, he settled on pure, unadulterated shock. No wonder Spyro had wasted so much magic. Rather than pave a clear path for the energy to follow, he had tried to bend the flow to his desires by sheer force of will alone. Not only had the purple dragon channelled a surge of magic far beyond what his Artisan blood should've permitted, but he was lucky to have all his limbs still attached. Moreso, the knowledge that Spyro had summoned a creature at _all_ was mind-boggling. Cosmos wondered if the young dragon recognised just how lucky he was to be walking away unharmed.

An image flashed through Cosmos' mind of what could've been if he had chosen to rear that egg all those years ago. If Spyro had been raised as a Magic Crafter, and not an Artisan. He recalled the Legend of the Purple Dragon, one without a magic signature, who had the potential to master the art of any homeworld. Cosmos had long discarded the Legend as superstitious ramblings, but Spyro was making it difficult to maintain that mindset.

"Spyro," Cosmos grumbled, crossing his arms in disappointment. His vambraces clinked against his seafoam green scales, and the tip of his tail swished in displeasure. "I gave you that tome for a reason. Brute-forcing your way through isn't sustainable. If you forsake the sigils and the runes, you'll need to expend all your energy on every spell you attempt. It worked in this case because the creature summoned was very small, but for anything larger, you would need more magic than you could hold in your body."

Cosmos gestured at the hovering butterfly, just as Sparx swallowed it whole with a satisfied **gulp.** At least someone appreciated Spyro's efforts. The purple dragon groaned in dismay and rubbed his cheek as his pride took a pounding. He was so pleased with himself for having conquered the task laid before him; to face the brunt of his elder's displeasure was a kick in the teeth. Cosmos sighed at Spyro's dejected expression and uncrossed his arms, squatting down to the shorter dragon's height.

"I'm sorry if I sound unkind, but I understand better than you may know. The basics of Magic Crafting are boring, bland, and uninteresting. You want to skip to the exciting parts, and I don't blame you. But you can't have a building without the mortar to hold the bricks together. You can't grow crops without the right soil. And even the greatest swordsmith must first learn to craft a dagger."

Spyro looked up at the turquoise elder in astoundment as he stood back up, ignoring the creaking of his ancient bones. Cosmos held a wistful, reflective look in his eyes as he remembered the sprightly little hatchling that longed for the admiration of those around him. Who only learnt the value of the fundamentals of magic when it was almost too late. Indeed, Cosmos understood Spyro's intentions well.

"I know, you're right," Spyro admitted. He had always viewed Cosmos as stuck-up and arrogant, aware of his immense magical prowess and determined to make sure everyone else knew it too. Now he was witnessing a different side of the elder dragon, one that rarely saw the light of day. It was a long-founded tradition for the Magic Crafters to sort the unhatched dragon eggs, ready to be welcomed by their new families in each homeworld. Spyro always wondered why the most aloof and unapproachable elder was chosen for such a delicate task. Now, he was beginning to understand why.

"I appreciate that you took the time to teach me about Magic Crafting, but I don't think this is for me. I don't have the patience to learn all these squiggly symbols, or the wisdom to put them to use like you do. I feel like I've wasted your time..."

"I will hear nothing of the sort!" Cosmos bellowed with gusto. "There is no such thing! If this escapade has taught you something about yourself, then your time was well spent!"

Spyro couldn't help but break into a wide smile. He responded to Cosmos' exuberance with a confident thumbs-up.

"Thanks, Cosmos!" he grinned brightly. "I promise I'll keep practising! That way, I can show you something that'll blow your horns off next time! I guarantee it!"

Cosmos snorted in amusement. Spyro had the confidence of a dragon ten times his size. He would've once looked down upon such a declaration with scepticism, but now he had no doubt that Spyro would follow through on his oath.

"You'd best be off then. You have several other dragon elders to pester."

"Aye aye, Sir!" Spyro exclaimed, practically sprinting off to the portal back to Winter Tundra. "Besides, I gotta get out of here before the results of my last attempt show up. Sorry in advance!"

With that, Spyro disappeared through the crowd of wizards in a flurry of amethyst scales.

Cosmos wondered if Spyro was perhaps too young to comprehend the finer points of his message. Even if that were true, wisdom was something earned with time. Whether the Legend of the Purple Dragon was real or not, Cosmos was no longer convinced that it mattered. There was incredible potential churning within Spyro's heart, just begging to be unleashed. It was a deep shame to watch it stagnate, but culturing that repressed talent would change the fundamentals of Spyro's identity. Perhaps, after everything he had gone through, it was best to just let Spyro be 'Spyro'. Cosmos smiled to himself and downed the rest of his tea. It was stone cold.

It was only later that day when he discovered what Spyro meant about the 'results of his last attempt.' It took them hours to stop the very confused and **very angry** dinosaur wearing a cowboy hat and wielding two magnum pistols from taking potshots every time someone walked outside.

Never a dull moment with Spyro.


	3. Chapter 3

(I've seen a lot of fanfics that believe Spyro is actually a Peace Keeper, so here's my take on it.)

* * *

Titan was ecstatic to see Spyro.

He held a firm belief that the spirit of a dragon could be felt in the heat of his breath and the tip of his horn. He had very little time for the poncy uptight attitude of the Dream Weavers, the complacency of the Artisans, the loony nature of the Dream Weavers, or the meddling of the Beast Makers. He trusted in the feeling of his gut and the ground beneath his feet, and any references to 'destiny' or 'karma' belonged only to those too cowardly to grab their future by the horns and swing it around their head like a battle axe. You could either fight or you couldn't, and _any_ dragon could fight. Even the scrawniest whelp could spit out a few hot coals, and this made every dragon useful.

No one knew this better than Spyro, a dragon who had risen above what had been decided as his station long before he was hatched and ploughed his way through countless worlds before he could even fly on his own. Titan fervently wished that some of his own newly hatched dragon pups would kick themselves into gear and take Spyro as a role model before he did it for them. What the purple dragon lacked in finesse and experience was made up for in waves of determination and what was most likely blind luck. Titan didn't know if Spyro was aware of the danger he was in, or if he was too young and immature to notice.

Not that he cared anyway, Spyro got his job done and did it well and that was all that mattered.

Titan had been pleading with Nestor to let him mentor the dragon pup for months, desperate to mould him into the fighting prodegy that he knew he could be, but the Artisan elder had resolutely refused. He saw the ways of the Peace Keepers as primitive and barbaric, and was concerned that any kind of formal training would bury the intuition and tenacity that had kept Spyro alive beneath piles of strict regimens and obedience training. **Pah!** What had all his years of lying around admiring art and making shelves taught him about war? And Nestor dared to lecture him?! Titan wished that he had just defied the elders and mowed down Gnasty Gnorc when he had the chance. Not a single other dragon had the expertise necessary to talk to the orange-scaled leader in such a demeaning way like he was a hatchling sprog.

He had been truly gobsmacked when Spyro had appeared at his door with a note from Nestor looking for training. Either the old coot had finally gone senile and changed his stance on the matter, or the letter was forged, but that didn't matter to him! He was convinced that the young dragon would come to him when he realised his true purpose as a defender of the Dragon Realms! Spyro was in his element when in the throws of battle and Titan knew that the Artisans had nothing they could offer the purple dragon to keep him engaged. He had a bet with some of the other Peace Keepers as to how long it would take before Spyro had joined their ranks; someone owed him a lot of gems.

He briefly glanced at the parchment from Nestor before tossing it over his shoulder.

Titan had almost agreed to shelter the unhatched egg when it was presented by Cosmos all those years ago. So many of the other realms had a borderline obsessive focus on whether that dragon would be suited for their particular line of work, but the coral dragon saw this narrow minded approach as a waste of opportunity. Did the dragon have horns? Could he breathe fire? Could he walk forward in a straight line? Then he was welcome as a Peace Keeper! No one believed in the Legend of the Purple Dragon these days anyway except perhaps the superstitious Beast Maker. The only thing that stopped him from accepting was that Gnasty Gnorc had been mounting more and more vicious attacks each day and every soldier he could lay his hands on was tied up elsewhere. He just couldn't justify temporarily discharging any dragon to act as babysitter.

"Well, it's about time!" he proclaimed loudly, hand on his hips. "Are you ready to learn how a real Peace Keeper lives?"

"You bet!" Spyro responded, matching Titan's enthusiasm and puffing his chest out as hard as he could.

"Now that's what I like to hear!"

Titan beckoned the charged up dragon pup to follow him towards the centre of the Homeworld, leaving the neglected parchment to collect dust on the floor behind him. Spyro was over the moon and energetically trotted beside the taller dragon soaking up the view of the morning sun peeking over the edge of the canyon. He had always felt a sort of connection to the Peace Keepers; they shared the tendency to solve their problems with their horns, so it wasn't a surprise that this was the training that he was most looking forward to and had the highest hopes for. He may have defeated several comical villains in his time but he hadn't always come out on top, so any improvements he could make were more than welcome. He was at least more optimistic about this than his debacle with Magic Crafting - Spyro considered it a tentative success but the disapproval from Cosmos had shaken his resolve in his own abilities.

Spyro spotted a gaggle of newly hatched dragons playing in the square as they marched past, each accompanied by their own dragonfly in every colour of the rainbow, and butting heads with each other to try and force the other dragon out of an uneven ring that had been sketched into the dust on the ground. One of the dragon pups managed to hook their forearm under the other dragon's belly and quickly suplexed them into the dirt, locking their arms behind the other's head and holding them down. The other dragon pups cheered wildly while Gunnar clad in leather armour counted down, watching the pinned dragon desperately try to wriggle out with little success. Spyro was briefly concerned for the wellbeing of the restrained child and wondered if he should intervene, but it looked like the fight was all in good fun so decided to let them be. Besides, he severely doubted that anyone would be foolish enough to misbehave around a dragon with _that_ many teeth.

"You actually came just in time," Titan mused, drawing Spyro out of his moment of reflection. "We're having some trouble with some Gnorcs so we could use another pair of wings on our side."

Titan was one of the few dragons that had not permanently relocated out of the Dragon Realms. After Spyro had returned from his well overdue vacation in Dragon Shores, the orange dragon was one of the first to promote the idea of opening a permanent link between the two worlds to try and rebuild what had been forcibly removed from them by the malice of the Sorceress. The other elders concurred, however they did not approve of his proposal involving a recon group comprised of various armed Peace Keepers to determine and eliminate any threat before the remaining dragons would follow. The others speculated that this would draw the ire of the locals whom Spyro had reported as being almost entirely peaceful, whereas Titan had seen this as a necessary display of strength and brotherhood among dragon-kind. Thus he had been banned from contributing in any way other than with his presence alone.

Titan had been appalled at this decision. Not only were they disregarding his authority as leader but they were potentially putting their safety on the line for the sake of formalities! The others were lucky that his strict discipline was enough to hold his anger back; any soldier under his watch knew better than to question the authority of any dragon above his station. He found there to be a fine line between constructive criticism and straight up blasphemy, something which the other elders clearly hadn't gotten through their rock-hard skulls. The only worlds that he had found himself even remotely invested in were Zephyr and Breeze Harbour, two realms that had been engaged in conflict since well before Spyro was involved. He had hoped to learn about their militaries but had been disgraced by their lack of conduct and disregard for the lives of the opposition.

War was intended to be an honourable sport, one in which both opponents fought to demonstrate their valour above that of their competitor but still recognised the strength of their enemies. It was a chance to tighten the bonds of brotherhood between fellow dragons and substantiate their prowess to their peers. The Land Blubbers and Breeze Builders approached their conflict using dirty tactics and low blows that left a foul taste in Titan's mouth. They were no better than cavemen beating each other over the head with sticks.

Shaking his head and bringing himself back down to earth he stopped himself and Spyro in front of the barracks for a briefing.

"So, here's the situation," he informed Spyro, standing to attention. "Some of the Gnorcs that are still running rampant after you sent Gnasty packing have been causing trouble around the Dragon Realms. We've tracked their location to an oasis in the desert outside the barrier around Cliff Town and we have reason to believe that they've been pilfering from our armoury."

Spyro sat back on his hind legs and listened in intently. He had spent so much time outside the Dragon Realms recently that this was all news to him - he didn't even know that any Gnorcs had remained after their leader was taken out, or that they even possessed the intelligence to organise themselves in any meaningful way. He felt a little disappointed in himself that he had become so estranged from the affairs of his birthplace, but also optimistic that this was the ideal opportunity to redeem himself, not that anyone blamed Spyro to begin with. He had a good excuse.

"We're going to mount an attack against the Gnorcs and wipe them out for good, but there are signs to indicate that they may be planning a counter attack," Titan continued, disdain dripping from every word. "I don't have enough time to give you any formal training, but I know that you can hold your own in combat."

Spyro felt a surge of pride welling up in his chest at this revelation. Receiving that kind of acclaim from such an imposing dragon was nothing to sniff at.

"What I'd like you to do is travel to Cliff Town through the portal," Titan gestured at the glowing gateway behind him. "Then make your way to the peak of the hill – mind the buzzards - you should have a good view over the desert from there. If you spot any Gnorcs up to no good just shoot this flare into the sky and we'll see it and come charging."

Oh.

"…That's it?" quizzed Spyro, feeling the warmth of the praise disappearing into a cold brick of disappointment in his stomach.

"That's it!" Titan replied with a big grin on his face, clearly oblivious to the reaction of the younger dragon. "Even though we would probably steamroll them, it's important to always pick and choose your battles. I was going to send one of my elite soldiers up there but I know that you can manage a few Gnorcs on your own if we can't reach you in time."

Spyro did his best to hide his disappointment and accepted the flare gun from the elder dragon. He was hoping to be a part of the action and kick some Gnorc butt with his track record more than enough to ascertain his clout in the matter, but he was grateful that he was being allowed to participate at all so bit his tongue. Titan offered Spyro a mighty salute which he replied to with a slightly less enthusiastic salute, leaving the amethyst dragon alone with Sparx and the flare gun. He looked down at the device to see his own melancholy reflection in the metal. He mentally slapped himself and tried to get it together. If those baby dragons were already at the point where brawling was an enjoyable pastime then he could one up them with everything he had!

Resolving himself again he purposefully ventured through the portal to Cliff Town and steeled himself. It was going to be a long climb.

* * *

Spyro was bored, _again._

He could only try and find objects in the sparse clouds above him or use the local cacti as target practise using pebbles so many times before he started to lose the will to live. He was currently lying on his back with both arms crossed behind his head, absently gazing at the sky and wondering how long he would need to stare at the sun before he went blind. The feeling of the sand between his scales bordered on soothing, but the scorching heat of the unprotected sun made him almost wish for the biting cold of Cloud Temples. Almost. He didn't mind the intense flame that exuded from exposed lava, in many ways reminding him of the perpetual heat in his own belly, but something about the oppressive dry heatwaves of the desert just exhausted him.

The climb to the peak of Cliff Town had been a lot quicker than the first time he had adventured up the hill, lured by the promise of gemstones seen from across the tar rivers and goaded on by Enzo's cryptic response to his enquiries. He never forgave that dragon for not telling him about the ravenous vultures. What sort of giant chickens are they to be unafraid of dragons anyway?! After the baddies had been driven out a lot of the buildings had been reclaimed and were once again repopulated by the dragons, with most buildings now being used as sleeping quarters for the rapidly diminishing armed forces. The area now operated under a very scrupulous and unwelcoming atmosphere, although Spyro could swear he still smelt the spicy curries brewed by the Fat Ladies on the breeze coming from the remaining cast iron cauldrons. His stomach growled.

Rolling over onto his belly he took another look over the desert, trying to make some sort of effort to adhere to the task given to him by Titan. The landscape was one of the blandest views he had ever been inconvenienced enough to have burned into his retinas, the seemingly endless ocean of pale white sand only interrupted by the occasional sad looking cactus. Spyro wasn't even sure what oasis Titan had been talking about; then again the entirely of Cliff Town was enclosed by a magic barrier that he had never been tall enough or brave enough to climb over, so anything beyond the view of the highest sand dune may as well have not existed to his immature mind. The purple dragon had defended himself against all manner of terrifying creatures but he didn't want to think about what could be hiding over the next hill. Anything that could thrive in such a hostile environment could stay as far away from him as possible.

A sudden breeze kicked up a cloud of dust which promptly found its way inside Spyro's nostrils.

Finding himself in the midst of a sneezing fit he turned away from the direction of the breeze and tried to clear his eyes. His heart yearned for the lush green grass and cascading rivers of the Artisan Homeworld, where the biggest threat only hit those with a pollen allergy, or the occasional homicidal sheep. The Peace Keeper Homeworld seemed so malevolent and uninviting that he was shocked any of the dragons had chosen to remain behind. Even the water was toxic, not that Spyro was the best swimmer anyway. He still remembered the pit of embarrassment that had grown in his stomach after learning from Moneybags that dragons could breathe underwater and that his fear of any large body of liquid had been thoroughly unnecessarily the entire time. The bear had never let him live that one down.

Spyro found himself being dragged out of his moment of reflection by Sparx insistently tugging on his cheek, trying to persuade him to turn his head to the right. He tried to swat the dragonfly away, still striving to recover from his incapacitating sneezing fit, but Sparx just seemed to pull with more force. He relented after clearing the sand from his eyes to the point where he could at least see again and cast his eyes over the nearest dune.

Worming their way across the sand were two Gnorcs dragging a large sack.

Spyro immediately threw himself into the sand beneath his feet and tried to make his silhouette as small as possible, aware that his vibrant purple scales and canary yellow horns would make him an easy target against the cascades of sand. Shuffling forward on his belly he got as close to the edge of the viewpoint as he dared with only the tip of his snout peeking over the cliff side. The Gnorcs seemed to be clothed in very poorly made armour that consisted of little more than knee pads and metal pots on their heads, and were hauling a large woven sack behind them which left a deep indent in it's wake. It appeared as so the Gnorcs were squabbling about something and were completely oblivious to their surroundings or the fact that they were being watched. One of the monsters pulled the front of his trousers forward, allowing an obscene amount of sand to fall out and collect on the ground around his feet. The other slapped him for this and shouted something incomprehensible.

Vigilantly observing the two Gnorcs drag themselves behind a distant sand dune and out of sight, Spyro tensely turned back and grasped the flare gun. Remembering Titan's instructions to fire the gun if he spotted any baddies roaming around he loaded it with a large round and pointed the muzzle at the sky, ready to let loose the stored firework in the chamber.

He hesitated.

Those two Gnorcs barely posed any kind of threat with their improvised armour, not that any Gnorc in a full chainmail set had ever stopped Spyro before, and they were obviously distracted and open to attack on all sides. He knew that they could be taken down with a single charge to the chest despite their mediocre armour, and there was little chance of being overwhelmed when neither Gnorc was much larger than he was, nor did they appear to be armed. Besides, wouldn't firing the flare only alert the suspected hoard and compromise the planned surprise attack? He didn't even know if the Peace Keepers were in a position to intercept the monsters, and there was no chance of the Gnorcs missing the flare or the plume of smoke that would lead them directly to Spyro's position. They might be as dumb as an Earthshaper but they weren't blind.

Sparx seemed to know what was going through Spyro's head and darted in front of his vision, startling the dragon and sending him careening backwards and down the sand dune, coming to a rest in a dizzy heap at the bottom.

"What was that for?!" Spyro protested after his vision stopped spinning and spat out a mouthful of sand. He noticed that he had lost the flare gun at some point during his somersaults but it was probably buried in the sand somewhere and had completely vanished. Sparx buzzed something in his face that was unintelligible but was clearly unimpressed with his friend's inaction.

"What? I was about to shoot!"

Sparx clearly didn't believe him and remained silent with a deadpan expression on his beady face.

"Don't look at me like that," Spyro snorted, matching his expression. "You know we could take those Gnorcs with our wings tied behind our backs. Well, maybe not so much for you."

Sparx let out a drone that could have been mistaken for a grumble and crossed his six arms.

"Sorry," Spyro apologised meekly. "That was uncalled for. What I _mean_ is that we've come all this way to find out what it means to be a Peace Keeper but all we're doing is sitting around!"

Spyro threw his arms in the air in frustration and turned back to where the Gnorcs had last been spotted.

"I just feel like we're not being useful…"

Sparx could at least sympathise with the dragon in this case. There were many times where he had wondered if Spyro would have been fine on his own, but there were plenty of _other_ times where the dragon had thrown himself into lava, or blown himself up, or fallen off a cliff, that had reminded Sparx of how clumsy his best friend was. He perched against the spines on the crown of the purple dragon's head and buzzed softly.

"…You're right," Spyro acknowledged after a moment, pulling himself to his feet and shaking the sand off. "We got this."

Taking a running start, the pair charged towards the nearest stone pedestal and scrambled up the grooves of the exposed side. Feeling the exhilaration beginning to flow through his veins, Spyro jumped towards the top of the spire and effortlessly cleared the height of the magic barrier. Feeling the sand parting beneath his feet as he landed on the other side he put his head down and charged in the direction of the Gnorcs as fast as his legs would carry him.

* * *

Titan remembered the day he was accepted into the barracks.

He was a tiny whelp, barely grown into his royal purple wings and horns but with an attitude several times his size and an ego to match. He was younger than any dragon who had ever been accepted into the ranks of the Peace Keepers but he had recently beaten one of his clutch-mates in an arm wrestling match and was riding on the high that came with it. He had a reputation as an abrasive bully, which he swore was just a sign of his growing strength – it didn't matter if he had to roll over his peers in the process to prominence, they only had themselves to blame that they had not put the same effort into their own characters. With freshly shined spines and a good night's sleep he had marched himself over to the encampment and demanded immediate recognition and a position within the ranks to reflect this.

Unsurprisingly he was turned away without a second thought. The elder at the time was seven feet of pure rippling muscle, tattooed across every inch of skin and covered in deep and unsightly scars but with a heart of gold and a love of classical music. Titan had heard that he had an eight pack, that he was ripped. He had recognised that the citrine dragon's prowess matched his name but his arrogance was nothing short of beastly. He had tried to decline the young Titan politely, recommending that he wait until he was a little older before applying again and to include a formal reference from his teachers, but this quickly devolved into a shouting match between the two equally stubborn dragons that had practically traumatised the other soldiers. Titan had stormed off in a huff, his desire to surpass anyone that had come before him only stoked by the rejection.

Overflowing with rage and with no knowledge on how to express it, he had channelled it into his training. He spent longer at the target range, longer in the gym, longer on the running tracks, slaving away each day working himself to exhaustion in the never ending chase for perfection. There were days that he had worked until he made himself ill, with several teachers voicing concerns about his wellbeing that he had shrugged off as signs of jealousy. He completely isolated himself from the other dragons, devoting as many of his waking hours as he could to physical gains and completely spurning any interactions with those who he had come to see as nothing more than competition.

The second time he had applied as a solider he was covered in bruises with one broken wing and the head of a Gnorc under his arm.

Titan had been lucky to escape with his life. Frustrated with the increasingly judgmental behaviour from his peers and verging on the edge of paranoia he had decided that enough was enough and it was time to make his move. He snuck out past the patrols in the middle of the night and climbed the barrier towards the nearest Gnorc camp. After Gnasty had been banished to the Dragon Junkyard and renamed it the 'Gnorc Nexus' the number of his minions had increased dramatically. Rumours were circulating that the Gnorc was using gems to manufacture his army in a vile bastardisation of Beast Maker magic, which meant that killing them was valuable, and Titan was desperate enough to take any opportunity he could to elevate his status. He didn't have the chance to nab any weapons before he left, but he was more than confident in the power of his unarmed fists alone. The purple spines on his tail were a substitute for any weapon in a pinch.

This wasn't a mistake he would make in his career again. The Gnorcs clearly had their thumbs in the Peace Keepers' pie - or Gnasty had turned into a master weapon-smith overnight - because the monsters were decked out in near-impenetrable armour and wielding maces that were eerily reminiscent of the craftsmanship of the Artisans that had supplied their own stock. None the less, while the weapons and armour were of the highest grade they were clumsy and amateurish in their execution and unable to access the powerful magic trapped within the reflective metal. Still, they were able to overpower Titan by sheer force of numbers and while he had managed to subdue them he had taken heavy blows in the scuffle. They had seen him coming over the sand dunes from a mile away so had prepared their defences before he even came within flaming distance. Obscuring his presence in the desert had not even crossed the young dragon's mind, his tunnel vision only allowing him to see the end result of his actions.

The elder had been furious with Titan on his return, and rightly so. He was fortunate that the coral dragon hadn't needed a prosthetic wing, although Titan never flew the same again as a result. This time he had no retorts for the elder as he shrank under the weight of his decisions and subjected himself to the ire of his superior. In his haste to validate himself he had put his own life and potentially the lives of other dragons at risk if he had required rescuing, had defied the orders of those above him, and had violated the curfew and climbed the barrier. The only reason he wasn't exiled to Volcanic Isle was because he had succeeded in returning the stolen weapons and armour, which the elder begrudgingly acknowledged as having some value. Titan had brought the head of his enemy back to use it as leverage to enter the ranks of the Peace Keepers. He was told to keep it as a reminder of his failings. He had it taxidermied and hung above his bed.

After spending a month in recovery Titan found himself with a renewed sense of vigour ensuing his humiliation. His obsession with physical training had already left his body in excellent health, so instead he spent his recovery time learning about military tactics. He memorised attack and defense formations, appropriate methods of engagement, and the most efficient manner of retreat. He poured his energy into making up for what he had neglected. It might have taken his health being compromised for him to come to terms with this, but he was more determined than ever with the odds stacked all the more heavily against him. By the time he was accepted into the ranks he had made up for his prior idiocy and more, and quickly progressed to the point where he took over as leader when the preceding one retired to Dragon Shores. Last he heard of the old bat he was writing terrible haikus in sweet seclusion.

He genuinely saw a lot of his own personality traits and flaws in Spyro, for better or for worse. Watching the young Artisan dragon grow into his own skin had stricken Titan with feelings of remorse surrounding the memories of the unhatched egg, and while he saw the Legend of the Purple Dragon as nothing more than superstitious drivel it was certainly applicable to the dragon pup. Guilt was not a feeling that the Peace Keeper elder enjoyed so he refused to indulge himself in pointless contemplation around how Spyro would have become a different dragon had he been raised as a Peace Keeper.

Seeing Spyro walk through the front door of the barracks with a grin on his face and a large sack of stolen weapons did enough to answer that question.

Titan had assembled a group of his most trusted and bad ass soldiers for this mission, small as it was, with the intentions of returning victorious. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't felt inadequate since the Forgotten Realms had been rediscovered, with fewer and fewer dragons finding it necessary to call on the fortitude of the Peace Keepers. Some days it felt like the peace was simply keeping itself and he was concerned that the armed forces would find themselves falling into obscurity. Even the Homeworld was becoming more barren as dragons were trading a life of valour for that of excess and sloth, laying down their weapons and armour and retiring for a life of indulgence and bliss in the new worlds. He would spit in the face of any dragon who abandoned their post if he could, but instead he craved the chance to prove that the art of war was still relevant even in the most harmonious hour.

So when the squadron had descended upon the oasis with fire in the eyes and on their tongues to find the camp abandoned they had been bewildered. It was clear that they had been correct in their prior assumptions as the greenery was burdened under the weight of disused tents and campfires, but it seemed almost like the location had been struck by a tornado. Gnorcs were not know as the tidiest of creatures but the campsite was near obliterated with tents demolished and burned and supplies upended, even surpassing the disorganised nature of the beasts. To anyone else it would have appeared as though the monsters had scattered in a rush, perhaps after learning that the Peace Keepers were coming for vengeance, but Titan could tell otherwise. The oasis had been the site of a monstrous attack.

Furthermore, none of the reportedly stolen weapons could be found in the rubble. Not even the weakest of ammunition or bluntest of daggers remained, although the obscene carvings on the trucks of the cacti spoke otherwise. Suddenly hit with a sense of deep dread he had ordered the fastest flier to check on Spyro in Cliff Town, concern hammering the inside of his skull at the thought that the young dragon could have been caught up in whatever had torn through the encampment, but the scout had reported that the lookout was unoccupied. Titan did not like feeling out of control of a situation, but the mere possibility that the purple dragon had been captured or _worse_ almost sent him in to a frenzy. Had his titillation at converting Spyro into what he truly believed could be one of the best soldiers in his ranks clouded his judgement? Had it cost him his _life?!_

He had hastily retreated back to the safety of the barracks to regroup and form a plan. None of the other dragons had reported Spyro returning to the Homeworld, causing the pit in his stomach to expand into a boulder. The scout who had ventured to Cliff Town _did_ report a lengthy trail in the sand leading down the side of the outlook, which perhaps indicated that Spyro had fallen off at some point. Titan didn't know if that was going to be useful in any capacity, but he would take what he could get. He was about to amass a search party when the young dragon had thrown open the doors to the barracks and carelessly dropped a brown fabric sack on the floor, unceremoniously spilling a large amount of steel weaponry on the ground in front of the silent spectators. He was bruised and clearly out of breath, but didn't appear to be harmed which was likely in part due to his protection from his dragonfly.

Titan didn't know if he should hug him or smack him.

The coral dragon swallowed heavily, only now noticing how dry his mouth was, as Spyro wildly regaled them with the story of how he spotted the two Gnorcs in the desert and assaulted them from behind with karate kicks. He gestured excitedly while explaining how he tracked them back to the campsite and took on a small army of Gnorcs, although he maybe didn't believe the part where Sparx shot lasers from his eyes and Spyro used telekinesis to swing a cactus around like a baseball bat. He reported that the only reason why he hadn't made it back sooner was because he had stopped to sign autographs after being accosted by a gaggle of hatchling dragons, which he could almost believe as being plausible. Spyro... certainly had an active imagination. Titan had to stop the story before he suffered an aneurysm.

"Why didn't you use the flare gun I gave you?" he probed after taking a deep breath. Spyro hesitated before responding.

"I was going to but I... sort of... lost it in the sand."

Titan pinched the bridge of his nose, noting that Sparx had firmly crossed his arms in displeasure at this statement. On one hand he was relived to find that Spyro had come back in one piece and that the elder wouldn't have to face the wrath of the other leaders. On the other hand he was desperately trying to fight the feeling that he had been humiliated by the younger dragon, who had essentially obliterated the forces that the others had been hesitating to face unaided. He knew that it was inappropriate to blame his own failings on anyone else, especially in light of his prior experience with disobeying direct orders, but he was already struggling to keep the Peace Keepers relevant and he didn't feel like this helped. How could he justify their ongoing existence when a prepubescent dragon sprog had done what he couldn't.

This was a line of thought that Titan did not want to entertain. Spyro likely didn't realise the consequences of his actions and believed that he was helping, after all that was what he had arrived to do from the beginning. Looking back down at the eagerly attentive dragon pup he saw the innocence in his eyes and reminded himself that Spyro was still a child. He considered what he would have done in the same position and tried to choose his words carefully, not something that any Peace Keeper would ever admit to being good at.

"Spyro," he stated, not allowing any expression to permeate his words. "You abandoned your post, didn't follow my orders and put yourself and your dragonfly in danger."

Spyro flinched at this, feeling like he wanted to earth to swallow him whole.

"I'm glad that you came back unhurt, but why didn't you _listen_ to me?"

He struggled not to reveal his frustration. Spyro was a child still, but this was exactly why he didn't mesh well with Artisans. They were far too unreliable and shortsighted except when it came to their craft, and he was so invested in helping the purple dragon grow out of these characteristics that he grappled with his own feeling of inadequacy that had put them in this situation in the first place.

"I'm sorry if I sound a little harsh," he explained, feeling guilty once again for Spyro's humble expression. "But we're Peace Keepers, not War Mongers. I'm glad that you're OK but we have rules for a reason and I can't ignore that you didn't follow what I asked of you."

Spyro had already noted that he had been apologising more than usual lately, but he found himself unable to justify his actions. He could reel off a long list of reasons to explain why he had acted the way he did, but being faced with the interrogation from the taller dragon had forced all excuses from his mind.

"I'm sorry", he mumbled, avoiding all eye contact. "I felt like I wasn't helping you guys by sitting and doing nothing. I know you told me that you wanted me to stay put, but this isn't what a thought being a Peace Keeper was about..."

Titan sighed heavily.

"I must apologise as well," he affirmed, Spyro looking up suddenly in shock. "I should have been more thorough in my briefing. When it comes to participating in any form of conflict every dragon has an important role to play, regardless of whether you're on the front line or not. We all must depend on each other to fulfill what is asked of us, otherwise we wouldn't be able to coordinate our movements effectively."

Spyro was unsure how to react to one of the leaders asking for forgiveness from him, but he knew Titan was correct. He had engaged in battle on his own in almost every situation he had found himself in on his quests, barring Sparx who rarely left his side, so had never needed to consider the involvement of anyone else when deriving a strategy. Titan patted the purple dragon on the shoulder, looking to diffuse the tense situation.

"I can't offer you a permanent position among the Peace Keepers because of your actions, but I'm still impressed that you took all those Gnorcs out on your own and returned the stolen weapons," he admitted with a warm smile. "If you ever want to give this job a real shot then you're always welcome back. Just don't do that again."

Spyro returned the smile and nodded, upset that his decision didn't go over as he had planned it to but grateful that the elder dragon would not be holding it against him. He stood on his hind legs and gave a firm salute.

"Yes sir!"

Titan allowed a bellowing laugh to escape his lungs before returning the gesture.

"Get out of here kid, and send Nestor my regards."

Titan heavily dropped into a seat as the purple dragon departed, suddenly finding himself exhausted beyond reason. Resting his head in his hands he tried to steel his nerves, still shaken at the possibility that he might have needed to explain to the other elders that Spyro had been killed under his watch. It was mandatory for a Peace Keeper to know when to follow orders and when to use their own intuition, but he still adamantly believed that Spyro would come to understand this in time. He pondered if it was possible for a dragon to be a warrior without _also_ being a Peace Keeper, but this wasn't something that Titan was going to worry himself with.

When he later spotted some of the hatchlings proudly displaying where Spyro had signed their wings he simply shook his head and decided to leave well enough alone.


	4. Chapter 4

(You know that one area in Misty Bog that everyone hates, some call it 'Guantanamo Bay'? Yeah. You're welcome.)

* * *

Bruno considered Spyro to be bad luck.

He would swear to anyone who dared to ask that he did not perceive himself as one of the more unreasonably superstitious Beast Makers. The Homeworld had an unfortunate reputation for attributing even the most minor of inconveniences to what were otherwise completely unrelated events – flaming the indigenous glowing mushrooms would cause snakes to manifest physically in your house. Stepping on a crack while climbing the steps of the temple would break your elder's back. Some days it was a wonder than any dragon ever left their house for fear of the universe smiting them for an action that they hadn't even thought twice about.

Bruno was not unaware that many of the superstitions had no basis in the physical or even magic world and were nothing more than coincidences, but it was much easier to adhere to them rather than test them and risk the consequences. He was a dragon with a sensible head on his shoulders, but going out of his way to actively encourage the wrath of the universe to strike him down where he stood was not particularly high on his agenda. He preferred to sleep well at night knowing that he had not partaken in any action that could come back to bite him in the future, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to break the elder's back.

This ideology bled into the beasts and creatures that the Beast Makers had earned their names from. While the Magic Crafters' general approach was to keep magic and science as far apart as possible to retain the purity of each art, the Beast Makers believed that the two were essentially one and the same, just expressed in different forms. If Bruno had a gem for every dragon that told him he was 'violating the sanctity of magic' or 'playing god' he could retire to the Artisan Homeworld tomorrow. The day that any dragon stopped living off the genetically modified crops and meat that the Beast Makers had been pivotal in creating or abstained from using their harnessed electricity to light their houses was the day that he would consider their opinion on the matter.

Bruno never once held this sort of belief against Spyro or his personality. The purple dragon was ultimately still a child, although he believed himself to be much more mature than he truly was, so could not be held responsible for the dark clouds that seemed to follow him wherever he went. But Spyro was the only dragon the elder had ever known who couldn't take two steps without being dragged by his tail into some sort of conflict and this wasn't something he could bring himself to ignore. He wasn't certain if the universe was out to get the young dragon, or if it was actually on his side in a macabre way, but he did _not_ want whatever attribute that made the dragon so important to rub off on him. He was very much content with spending his time fishing and meditating in peace, thank you.

When Spyro had appeared out of thin air with a parchment from Nestor and an interest in the Beast Maker arts, Bruno couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be a bad idea.

He had not chosen to move out of the Dragon Realms permanently, unable to tear his heart away from the swamp that he had known his whole life, but had still done his fair share of travelling across the newly opened worlds. Spyro had found him squatting on the edge of a riverbed in Spooky Swamp indulging in his usual pastime – fishing. Ironically, Bruno intensely disliked something about this particular swamp but he couldn't put his claw on what it was. It was certainly less _dangerous_ than his home with no Attack Frogs or homicidal shrubs to be found, but the perpetual rain was depressing and he found that the locals reminded him too much of the Dream Weavers with their inability to speak in anything other than forced haikus, and he couldn't _stand_ the Dream Weavers. Or bad poetry.

Spyro clearly didn't seem to enjoy the swamp either, but this was largely due to his nature as an Artisan. He sheltered his dragonfly from the downpour under one leathery wing and visibly flinched every time a large droplet of water managed to land directly between his eyes. Still, his demeanour was unchanged from what the elder had come to expect of him, gazing up at the taller dragon expectantly and clutching the parchment in his hands.

Bruno did not regret his decision to reject the unhatched egg when he had been approached by Cosmos. The Beast Makers accepted very few eggs to begin with, even when the dragon inside was confirmed to belong to their kin, because the swamp was just too harsh a location to raise defenceless children in. It required a certain strength of spirit to persist in an environment that was actively trying to kill you at every turn. He had been tempted to honour the proposition, realising that the dragon within the egg was technically an outcast which was something the Beast Makers had come to pride themselves on, however this changed as soon as Cosmos mentioned the Legend of the Purple Dragon.

There was a sizable difference between groundless superstition and a _prophecy_. For all Bruno disliked the Dream Weavers with a passion usually only reserved for the Gnorcs they were by no means incompetent, despite their appearances, so when they had predicted that a dragon with purple scales would be born with a magic signature that had no alignment to any Realm he hadn't doubted them for a moment. The potential of a dragon fitting that description would be feasibly limitless, and Bruno couldn't help but feel apprehensive as to what the existence of such a creature would mean for the rest of dragon-kind.

He read the parchment given to him from Nestor and snorted.

"Well, this is a surprise," he pondered sullenly, turning his attention back to the fishing line. "Nestor is normally very overprotective of his hatchlings."

"I've gathered," Spyro responded, this statement reflecting what the other elders had told him. "But I haven't heard anything about what you guys get up to so I thought it would make a change from what I'm used to back home."

Bruno contemplated this for a moment, before pulling his line from the water of the swamp. Scowling to find that the bait had been completely devoured by the resident piranhas due to the interruption, he firmly hooked another thick slab of raw meat onto the end of the line and lowered it back into the unseen depths of the dark water.

"That's completely intentional, Spyro," he noted, feeling the slight tugging at the end of his line but biding his time. "Our teachings have come from generations of effort, passed down between dragons since our ancestors first began to refer to themselves as 'Beast Makers'. Only those who share our blood are able to share our learning."

Spyro was starting to get sick of being told that he didn't have the right kind of 'blood'.

"Is that a no then?"

Bruno cast his eyes towards the young dragon, noticing the downtrodden expression on his face. He felt a little guilty that he was being so cold towards the dragon pup; he _had_ dragged himself all this way in the miserable weather so it was clear he was serious. He tugged at the fishing line to expose the meat bait which was now covered in dozens of ravenous piranhas still attempting to devour the bait even after being pulled from the water. He unceremoniously shook the fishing rod which knocked the hungry piranhas off the meat slab and into a large bucket resting nearby. Spyro took a couple of steps away from the now violently shaking bucket.

"Not necessarily," he replied, standing and beginning to pack up his equipment. "I can't teach you any of our magic, but there might still be something that you could help with."

Spyro perked up at this, still filled with trepidation after the last task he had 'helped' with but was just happy that he wasn't being rejected outright before he had a chance to prove himself.

"Tell you what," Bruno said after a brief pause. "Meet me back home in Misty Bog. I've been working on something that I haven't made much progress on in a while, but I think you would be perfect."

Bruno felt his heart warm a little seeing the purple dragon's expression brighten into a wide smile. He began to tap his feet in excitement, the rain no longer dampening his mood at the prospect of training with the elder dragon, even though he wasn't totally sure what he was going to be helping with. He nodded dramatically and turned and charged off, looking to get through the portal and into dry weather as soon as he could.

Bruno had to come to terms with the fact that most dragons saw the Beast Makers as backwards savages, overly secretive and unapproachable – it was something he had almost come to relish. Seeing the dragon pup so open to expanding his horizons was not something he had witnessed in his dragon brethren for a long time, and it filled Bruno with a sense of tentative optimism. He wondered if it was possible for Spyro's luck to change.

Picking up the bucket of piranhas, he hauled the fishing rod over his back and began the long trek back to his home swamp.

* * *

Spyro _really_ disliked swamps.

He honestly did not understand why any dragon, or any other creature for that matter, would voluntarily spend the majority of their lives in such gloomy surroundings. He couldn't stand the feeling of the mud squelching between his toes, too slippery to grip for a decent charge, and the lack of sunlight penetrating through the dense fog cast a melancholy shadow over the dank green forestry. It was no wonder that most of the dragon had resigned themselves to living in haphazard wooden huts nailed to the highest tree tops – anything standing in one place for too long would find themselves neck-deep in moss and sludge before they could even call for help.

Spyro shuddered – he had found himself in that situation one too many times.

Still, he could stomach the rancid smell of the peat bogs if it meant that he was able to continue his quest for self-realisation. He would admit that the Beast Makers were probably the dragons he resonated with the least, but he would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity as this. The Beast Makers were notoriously secretive, even by dragon standards, so the fact that Bruno was willing to open up about their practises to an outsider at all was a feat in itself. Spyro couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that he was the one chosen to receive such enigmatic information but tried not to let it get to his head. He was not succeeding.

Misty Bog was the site of one his worst nightmares during his many quests, and he had been to a _lot_ of miserable realms in his time. This wasn't even the only realm with homicidal plants – Fractures Hills immediately came to mind – but something about the impenetrable grey peasouper suffocating the area and the ruins of abandoned stone skyscrapers set him on edge. This was an emotion he shared with Sparx, who had needed to cover for Spyro's hits multiple times in this realm and was twitching with anxiety, constantly scouring the area for threats.

By comparison Bruno felt right at home. The overly saccharine and bright environments of the rest of the Dragon Realms just gave him a headache; at least the swamp was honest in how dangerous it was, whereas a lot of the other realms feigned a sense of safety with their vibrant colours and carefree atmosphere. He had seen what resided in the High Caves, or what lay within the lava pits of Jacques. Sure, the Beast Makers might have had more than their fair share of involvement when it came to creating these monsters, accidentally or otherwise, but the idea that the Beast Maker Homeworld was somehow more threatening than any other Realm was simply laughable.

Seeing Spyro persevere knowing that he was very much out of his element gave him faith that he was making the right decision by including him.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Spyro," Bruno noted, placing his hands on his hips and smiling brightly. "I've been putting this off for far too long already."

Spyro considered that the snails pace at which the dragon elder had strolled back to the Beast Maker Homeworld might be a trend with him.

"No problem," Spyro said nonchalantly, resisting the urge to sit on his back legs in case he disappeared into a mud pile. "So, what are we doing?"

" _We?!_ " Bruno laughed incredulously. "I'm not doing anything today! It's all on you!"

Spyro was wondering if he was getting in over his head.

"You remember the Attack Frogs, right?" Bruno asked. Spyro nodded in trepidation. "Well we've had enough of them running rampant in our swamp! Even after you chased all the Gnorcs out we haven't been able to get within five feet of the frogs without being whipped by them, and I don't think I need to tell you how much their tongues hurt."

Spyro swallowed deeply. He didn't need reminding.

"So here's where you come in," Bruno stated, oblivious to the panicked expression on the younger dragon's face. He handed Spyro a scratched metal crate with a row of black button on one side and an unlit screen on the top. "You remember the building where you rescued Damon? We've found the Attack Frogs using it as a lair at night. We wanted to reclaim that building but I think I hate the frogs more."

Spyro inspected the device, turning it carefully in his hands to prevent damage to delicate interior. It seemed to have an opening for a battery pack, meaning it ran off electricity, but the buttons and screen were completely foreign to him. The Beast Makers were known for relying heavily on technology for daily living which was something that had not jumped the cultural divide to the other dragons yet.

"It should be dark enough now for you to sneak into the building undetected, plant this bomb, and blow the place sky high!" Bruno bellowed, getting more enthusiastic by the second. "That bomb should make a mushroom cloud large enough to be seen from the Dream Weavers Homeworld! Then we can be rid of the frog menace once and for all!"

"W-We're going to explode them?" Spyro questioned, not yet sharing the elder dragon's zest. "Isn't this maybe a little excessive?"

"Of _course_ it is!" Bruno replied. "But it's also going to be very cathartic. Besides, frogs taste great lightly toasted. Just find somewhere safe to plant it and press the first button to turn it on, then the second to connect it to the remote. Then come back and we can enjoy the show!"

Spyro shook his head, unable to hide his smile. He was concerned about the safety of the mission but the taller dragon's enthusiasm was infection. He left Bruno to finish setting up the equipment and tucked Sparx under one wing to hide his glow from any prying eyes. He had never found himself using stealth on any of his adventures, preferring to charge into trouble horns first, but he really didn't fancy having to face off against a horde of drowsy Attack Frogs if he could help it.

This was the one time he found himself thankful for the soft ground of the mire, which was helping to disguise the sound of his claws clicking against the ground. He kept his body as low as he dared without losing his balance on his hind legs and darted towards his target, bomb in hand. The killer trees all seemed to be 'sleeping', if a tree could even sleep, snoring loudly through their noses as their mouths were buried underground. Spyro was grateful that Bruno had planned this escapade during the dark of night – the lack of sun and resulting lack of photosynthesis must be keeping the shrubs inactive enough for him to move past unobstructed.

The duo wordlessly made their way over to the imposing structure and glided across the river of poisonous water, entering through the pitch black mouth of the building. In the dark of night it almost seemed like the area was opening up to swallow the two whole. Now sheltered from the gaze of the ravenous trees, Sparx wriggled out from under Spyro's wing and flew on ahead, using his golden light to illuminate the area. Spyro briefly worried that this would alert any frogs hidden in the shadows, but it was better than tripping blindly into the jaws of some enormous creature.

Climbing the steps as silently as he could manage, Spyro leaned against the furthest wall and tried to peer around the corner using his peripheral vision. Sparx might have been illuminating the way, but that didn't mean he was going to plough ahead as he normally would; he didn't want to think about the fact that any frog would find a stray dragonfly to be a delectable treat. Only the tip of his snout was visible beyond the wall that he had squashed himself again as he tried to sneak a look at the contents of the main room.

The entire building was overflowing with sleeping frogs.

Spyro held in a muffled gasp and pulled himself deeper into the opaque shadow of the wall. None of the frogs seemed to have stirred from their slumber, even with Sparx's radiance casting a sunny yellow glow over the exposed stone and stained wood panelling. Spyro swallowed heavily, finding his mouth suddenly very dry.

He was confident in his abilities, some would even say overconfident, but he didn't have fond memories of his last encounter with the Attack Frogs. He had been lured into a false sense of security by their bright pastel blue skin and rainbow tongues, but had been viciously accosted en masse when he had approached to see if they were friendly. Their appearance was so out of place compared to the local fauna that Spyro hadn't believed them to be a threat; this wasn't an assumption he'd found himself making again.

Steeling his nerves and drawing a deep, shaking breath he pushed his two hind feet into the ground and began to sneak forward. Trying to keep his toes curled up to his claws wouldn't scrape against the floor he weaved between the incapacitated amphibians, tail up and wings flat against his back. He hesitated at climbing over two frogs sleeping on top of each other and protecting a large pile of translucent eggs in a glue-like fluid, feeling a slight pang of remorse sweep over him at the sight of the family, but remembered how he was scolded for not following orders before and continued to press onwards.

Upon reaching the smooth stone surface of the stairs in the back of the room he let out a breath that he didn't realise he was holding and scrambled up the side as fast as he could manage. Checking to make sure he wasn't about to be attacked from the rear, he gently placed the bomb on the ground and pressed the first button as instructed. He jolted in surprise as the screen on the top of the box lit up to revel the words 'Out Of Range', but none of the frogs reacted to this in any way. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest he tried to calm his shaking legs and pressed the second button.

The bomb let out a series of loud staccato beeps as it began to search for the remote.

Spyro didn't even check to see if this had disturbed any of the Attack Frogs, he simply turned and ran. Thankful that the building had a back entrance he charged up the side slope of the building and opened his wings to fall into a glide towards solid ground. Relieved to see Sparx following him he angled his dive towards Bruno's location.

Seems he had drawn a bit of a crowd.

* * *

Bruno remembered the first beast he had made.

He was a slightly… oddly shaped dragon pup, short and wide with small wings and massively oversized horns. The Beast Makers were certainly not known to be the leanest of dragons – the Magic Crafters claimed this trophy by a long shot – but the majority of his peers already had the hint of muscles forming under their scales as they grew in strength. Bruno never managed to develop this, his body only seeming to grow wider instead of taller, until he was a full head shorter than his clutch-mates.

He could never recall being bullied specifically, but he had found himself struggling with his confidence and becoming more introverted as time went on despite the patience of his teachers. The Beast Makers took on very few eggs each twelve years so he had no other dragons his age to hide behind. All of his flaws were out in the open for inspection and assessment, and he quickly discovered that he was his own worst critic, whether this was regarding his physique or not. It was something he would self-conscious about for the rest of his life.

He had initially thrown himself into physical training in an attempt to change himself, spurning the magic behind Beast Maker arts and focusing almost entirely on the Homeworld's other speciality – electricity. He would freely admit that he loathed the work; it was very physically taxing setting up machinery and pylons and running maintenance work on the massive converters and he quickly fell behind. This drew the ire of the leader, a menacing dragon with black scales and piercing eyes. He swore that every single stereotype about Beast Makers were based off that one dragon.

The elder had not judged Bruno on his stature, nor had he judged him on his timid nature. He had judged him on his lack of performance. Bruno may have been in denial, but the elder could tell that he was trying to force a square peg into a round hole, so to speak, and was trying to learn a profession that he ultimately had no talent in. The young dragon had no say in the matter, and was moved to a class specialising in magic under duress. He had sulked about it, but didn't dare question the decision. He had heard that the elder could eat dragon pups like him for breakfast.

Bruno had reluctantly scraped by in his lessons, unwilling to put too much effort in to a subject that he had decided he wasn't interested in, but similarly unwilling to invoke the wrath of the elder. He barely found himself passing any classes or participating in an extra curricular work, but he did the bare minimum so that he stayed out of trouble. He could tell that his teachers were disappointed in him, but he didn't care. He lacked the passion and motivation necessary to excel and had resigned himself to a low paying job, perhaps in one of the other Dragon Realms.

He wasn't sure when this mentality had changed, but he was almost certain it was around the time of the first assignment.

The task had been simple – create a beast. This was at the very core of the Beast Maker's way of life, so it was only a matter of time before he found himself having to participate in it. His clutch-mated had been excited at the prospect of the assignment - he could hear that some were planning to create hybrid beasts, or new beasts entirely - he just want it to be over as quickly as he could force it. Bruno began to consider what beast would be the easiest to manufacture, after all the assignment had been vague enough that he could find some sort of way to slack his way through. He didn't need to make a beast that was flashy, or useful, or healthy…

Bruno settled on a sheep. Heaven knows the Artisans had enough of them and wouldn't miss it, and the Beast Makers had been altering the animals for years in order to make them more docile and delicious. Bruno would attest to this last point – barbequed lamb was truly scrumptious and a far cry from the tough and tasteless meat of the local beasts. All he wanted was to make it a little smarter, sick to death of watching it walk into walls and stare at him with glazed over eyes. He swore the creature bared an uncanny resemblance to his teacher, not that he had the gusto to say that to his face.

His spell had definitely worked, but...

Well, the last Bruno had heard the sheep was still terrorising the Artisan Homeworld dressed as a scarecrow.

The complaints from his teachers barely registered with Bruno due to his shock. He was baffled at the fact that he had put so little energy and effort into the spell but had still achieved such dramatic results. If he had put a little more force behind his magic the sheep could have even learn to read or speak, although considering it had been intelligent enough to immediately escape this perhaps wasn't a good idea. He ultimately failed his class, the first time he had done so since the beginning, seeing as he didn't have anything to show for his efforts but Bruno didn't pay any attention to this set back.

Having finally found his forte he began throwing himself into his learning, absorbing as much knowledge about Beast Maker magic as his skull could fit, spending countless sleepless nights with his head in a scroll or two. Not all of his creations had come out... _alive_... but he quickly rose from the bottom of his class to the cream of the crop, astonishing his teachers who had no idea what miraculous event could have taken place for Bruno to morph into their star pupil. The elder dragon did not speak of this again, but Bruno could swear he saw a twinkle in the old dragon's eye whenever he was brought up in conversation.

In a way, Bruno saw a lot of himself in Spyro, as difficult as it was to admit that he sympathised with a dragon that did not share his blood. He knew what it was like to feel like you were being forced into a role that you didn't want to occupy because someone else had decided you were good at it, but he _also_ knew how important it was to trust the intuition of those with more experience. If Spyro truly was the dragon described in the legends then he had the potential to learn any magic he put his mind to, but that didn't mean that he _should_. Beast Maker magic in particular could have horrific results if used incorrectly, producing creations unable to walk to even feed themselves. Bruno tried not to think too much about that.

Speaking of the purple dragon, he could spot the yellow glow of his dragonfly like a beacon against the pitch black sky.

He felt a blanket of relief wash over him knowing that the dragon pup would be returning unscathed. Those frogs were no laughing matter even for a fully grown dragon, so the fact that Spyro would happily stand his ground against the hell beasts was impressive on its own. Bruno had collected some of the remaining Beast Makers to watch the fireworks - he didn't know a single dragon that hadn't been slighted by the amphibians before and all were itching for a glimpse of revenge, no matter how small or fleeting.

"Nice work, Spyro," Bruno bellowed, greeting the returning dragon with open arms. "The remote finally connected to the bomb a couple minutes ago so we're pretty much all set."

"...What's with the crowd?" Spyro queried, noticing the large gaggle of dragons looking very out of place in the downtrodden swamp, most milling around excitedly. Bubba was serving hotdogs from a stand that he had pulled from... somewhere.

"They're here to watch the fireworks!" Bruno replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just need to set up these lawn chairs so we can relax and watch the show."

Sure enough, Bruno was accompanied by a large stack of colourful striped fabric chairs that he unceremoniously opened and stuck into the mud to keep them in one place. Spyro wasn't sure he wanted to know where the Beast Makers kept pulling all these props from.

"Uh... Bruno?" he asked tentatively. "I wanted to ask if you knew where these Attack Frogs even came from? They don't exactly fit in with the swamp all that much."

Bruno let out a barking laugh before sinking into a blue and red deckchair and getting comfortable.

"They were actually created by us Beast Makers years before you were been hatched," he remembered fondly. "We were trying to use them to guard the borders of the village, but after the Gnorcs took over and rerouted all the electricity away from their electrified cages they broke out and we've never managed to round them back up."

Bruno remembered discovering this after Spyro had feed him from his crystal prison all those months ago. He had no recollection of any outside events while he was in statis, so waking to find that the amphibians had all but taken over _his_ swamp had almost given his aging heart a jolt. The Beast Makers weren't afraid to create dangerous beasts in their endless pursuit of science, but he knew they should've used something _other_ than electricity to keep them put. Bubba handed him a slightly charred hotdog, just how he liked it, before promptly swallowing it whole. He noticed Spyro's expression become conflicted and change to a forlorn frown, an expression which didn't suit the young dragon well.

"Something wrong?"

Spyro huffed and unconsciously rubbed the canary yellow spines on his nape.

"I feel like maybe this wasn't the right thing to do," he replied despondently. "I don't feel right trying to get revenge against the frogs now if us dragons bred them to be so dangerous. It doesn't seem like it's their fault. And some of them had even laid eggs - couldn't we just collect the eggs and maybe try and rehabilitate them or something?"

Bruno sighed deeply.

"Spyro," he said. "When you were running around on your escapades in Avalar and the Forgotten Realms, did you stop to think if any of the monsters you were fighting deserved to be spared just because they were _trained_ to attack you and weren't doing it of their own volition?"

Spyro thought about this for a moment but did not respond.

"The reason I say this," Bruno stated, accepting another hotdog but refraining from eating it, "is because it's not right for us to try and decide who is and isn't worthy of living just because we're dragons. It's important to be consistent, and if you or any other individual out there wouldn't think twice about doing what was necessary to protect themselves or their kin, then you owe everything else the same consideration. Besides, if they've started to lay eggs then it's even more important that we take action before it gets out of hand!"

Bruno downed the second hotdog before sitting back up in his chair and clapping once, getting the attention of all the attending dragons and disturbing some of the resting trees.

 **"Is everyone ready for the show?!"**

The air was filled with raucous cheering from the crowd, almost deafening Spyro and Sparx and jolting a lot of the trees from their slumber. Thankfully they were too disoriented to pose any imminent threat. Sparx reflexively darted behind one of Spyro's horns in an attempt to protect himself from the impending explosion and squeezed his beady eyes shut. Without further ado Bruno pressed the button on the remote and waited for the explosion.

They were not disappointed.

An enormous fireball quickly engulfed the skyline throwing beautiful shades of yellow, orange and red across the surrounding grasslands. A shockwave pounded at the poisonous water sending waves shooting into the air and crashing down with force, dragging rocks and chunks of mud into the depths as they retreated. Any trees too close to the flame were almost immediately disintegrated, and any lucky enough to survive the explosion came out flaming or with all their leaves knocked off. Spyro had never seen the shrubs move so fast even when trying to hunt down their latest victim as they scattered in mass panic. Blinking rapidly to clear the bright spots from his vision he looked to find that the place where the wooden structure once stood was now occupied by an enormous mushroom cloud that reached like an outstretched claw trying to tear at the heavens.

A moment of silence fell across the crowd for only a second as the onlookers stood in awe of the spectacle, the light of the fire reflecting off their multi-coloured scales and casting a rainbow on the grass in front of them. As the dust began to settle the dragons started to whoop and holler again, almost drowning out the ringing in Spyro's ears. He shook his head, trying to ignore the sudden nausea at the movement, somehow not filled with the same vigour as the other dragons. He realised that their cheering was caused by an apparent rain of frog meat falling from the sky, some burnt beyond recognition and some looking lightly toasted and almost fresh.

Spyro wasn't sure if the feeling of sickness was from vertigo or from the realisation that he was the cause of this.

"I don't think this kind of moral dilemma is really for me," he stated blankly, unable to tear his gaze away from the slowly dissipating smoke cloud.

"That's fair," Bruno replied, similarly. "Our role isn't easy, but then again neither are the roles of any of the other Realms."

A large chunk of frog fell from the sky and landed square in the middle of his belly, which he delightedly grasped and bit a chunk out of.

"You know, Spyro," he said with his mouth full. "You're made of pretty tough stuff for an Artisan to stand up to those frogs. I know I said I couldn't teach you any of our magic, but you'd be excellent doing some of the more hands on stuff instead of wasting your life painting. If you change your mind just give me a holler."

Spyro nodded meekly and left with his head lowered in respect for the creatures that had just lost their lives. Bruno wasn't sure if he was maybe too young to grasp the finer points of such a moral quandary, but this was something he could see the dragon accepting as he aged. He knew himself how difficult such a decision was and wasn't immune to the feeling of blame that came with it, but he meant what he had said. Spyro had defied all expectations that the elder had of him and had proven his worth not as an Artisan, but simply as a dragon. Bruno wondered if the secretive ideology of the Beast Makers was the best idea moving into the future; maybe they would benefit from some outside help once in a while.

Swallowing the lump of frog meat he watched the other dragons wade into the mud and scoop up slabs of meat with their hands as the smoke from the fire continued to spread across the sky.

Maybe Spyro wasn't such bad luck after all.


	5. Chapter 5

(Hey, just because Spyro has had some terrible games in his time doesn't mean they aren't canon! lol!)

* * *

Lateef had **known** Spyro would be coming for a lot longer than he knew himself.

Irrespective of the fact that the Dream Weavers were possibly the most finicky dragons in the six Realms when it came to accepting eggs, Lateef treasured children. Adult dragons habitually demonstrated a remarkable absence of empathy and intuition, falling into the trap of closed-minded thinking as they aged. Children didn't suffer from this; many dragons would describe the Dream Weavers as eccentric or possibly even 'loony' if they felt like being offensive, but children saw them as playful, whimsical, eclectic. They had an appreciation for the light-hearted and effervescent atmosphere of the Homeworld, which was typically dismissed as incoherent and irresponsible by their older counterparts.

Yes, he **knew** it was only a matter of time before the purple dragon would embark to the floating Realm with questions he wasn't sure if he could answer. Even if the Legend did not refer to Spyro _specifically_ , his ambitious and non-partisan nature would make him a willing and welcome student, and Lateef could tell he would benefit greatly from a guiding hand, regardless of any prophecies bearing his nomenclature. Spyro may not know it yet, but his destiny was drawing him to the dream-like Realm, leading the dragon pup towards the knowledge that would ultimately guide him headlong into his fate.

Oh, and the other Realms could help too, he supposed.

Unsurprisingly, not a single Dream Weaver had voluntarily relocated out of their Homeworld; barely any had left the Dragon Realms at all, even after the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been opened. None of the other worlds had appealed to them – they were too sensible, or too dangerous, or too _boring._ Besides, the dragons had already fabricated a Realm that gratified their every need, why would they want to leave when they could be comfortable where they were? The only time any dragon had ventured outside the iridescent borders of the Homeworld was to exchange their potions for gems. Even the most stoic Dream Weaver still needed a hoard to sleep on.

Ah, but he was getting off track again. The sapphire dragon was already prepared for Spyro's arrival, having dreamt that he would manifest at the entrance to the highest peak of the tallest tower in Lofty Castle before Spyro had doubtless even thought of the idea himself. He was looking for assistance, wide eyed and bushy tailed as always and parchment in hand, accompanied by his ever present dragonfly.

Lateef smiled knowingly at the contents of the parchment.

It was a common misconception that the dragons alleged to be the most amicable by any Dream Weaver were the Magic Crafters, being thus that their mastery over all things magic was a trait shared by the two Homeworlds, but this could not be further from the truth. The Magic Crafters' talents were weighed down by their obsessive focus on detail and rules, afraid or unwilling to expand past their 'Sigils' and really reinvent their magic. No, the dragons that Lateef held closest to his heart were the Artisans – artistic and creative in their pursuits.

The royal blue dragon's decision to refuse the unhatched egg was fully intentional, but was not done senselessly. As swiftly as Cosmos had approached him, barely hiding his distain towards the other elder, and revealed that the egg held a magic signature that did not match any of the Dragon Realms, Lateef knew it was time. The Legend of the Purple Dragon had been misinterpreted and warped over the decades as each new generation of dragon began the fruitless search for the creature, but the true meaning of the prophecy remained with the dragons who had written it. The child could not be raised as a Dream Weaver. If the legend was correct, it did not matter which other Realm raised it anyway.

Besides, the Magic Crafters had not even considered the fact that there were more than five Dragon Realms! The sixth Realm had not been actively inhabited by dragon-kind for millennia, but it would be nought but imbecilic to disregard its existence. Not that he would ever say that to Cosmos' face – he was perfectly content having all four limbs still attached, thank you.

"I didn't expect this all to take place so soon," Lateef mumbled to himself, lost in thought. "And coming from _Nestor_ of all dragons…"

"Huh?" Spyro queried, head cocked to one side. Lateef shook himself out of his reverie and redirected his attention towards the waiting purple dragon.

"Sorry Spyro, my mind often wanders in its old age," he explained, folding the parchment and setting it to one side. "You're looking to learn the art of Dream Weaving I assume?"

"That's right!" the amethyst dragon replied, wings extended in confidence. His lack of success with the other elders might have set him back a little but he was still determined to follow through. Nestor would kick his butt if he chickened out half way through, that is if Spyro didn't kick his _own_ butt for being a wuss. Lateef felt a smile cross his face at the display.

"Very well," he stated genially. "After all you've done for us this is the least I could offer you. Please, come inside."

He stepped back to allow the peppy dragon and his escorting dragonfly to enter his abode. The interior was a little hazy due to the vapour exuding from his smouldering rock salts, but the elder dragon had already set up a cauldron and rearranged his monumental collection of ingredients in jars with cork stoppers. He had spent a good hour trying to decide if he should organise them by name, colour, or attributes, eventually throwing caution to the wind and organising the bottles in whatever manner he found the most aesthetically pleasing. Cosmos had pitched a fit more than once at the haphazard assembly on the rare occasion that he managed to drag himself out of his self-imposed solitude long enough to visit.

Chuckling to himself at this image he sat back on his feathery tail and crossed both legs, suspending himself comfortably in the air, and breathed in the clarifying scent of the burning salt rocks. Spyro sneezed, the salty vapour burning in his nostrils.

"Have you ever used one of our potions before, Spyro?" Lateef queried, eyes slipping closed as he became more relaxed.

"I can't say I have," the purple dragon responded, sitting back on his hind legs. "I've seen some of the other Artisans drink them, though."

The royal blue dragon suspected as much – the concoctions brewed by the Dream Weavers found no bearing amongst the youth, but were used and often abused by their older brethren.

"I shall endeavour to provide a brief overview of what we accomplish as Dream Weavers, then." Spyro nodded, the faraway look in Lateef's eyes creeping him out a little. "When a dragon approaches us for assistance we do not dwell on the small details of magic like the Magic Crafters, or the ethical conundrums like the Beast Makers. No spells are used in our line of work."

Lateef reached out and plucked a vial from the shelf containing a transparent oily solution that seemed to cling to the glass sides of the jar it was trapped within.

"Rather, all our work is done through the medium of potions."

He swiftly turned the vial on its head and held one thumb over the aperture at the top to prevent the liquid from escaping. Disturbing the fluid caused it to emit a soft pint and mint green glow which reflected off the violet scales of the now very impressed dragon as he cooed in awe. The radiance was only conquered by the sunny yellow aura emitted by Sparx himself as he reciprocated Spyro's astonishment.

"You probably discovered during your time with Cosmos that Magic Crafting is only really suitable for those with a predisposition for magic," Lateef retorted, his brow crinkling in distain at this thought. "The use of potions for Dream Weaving was chosen specifically because it avoids this dilemma – an ingredient will still perform its desired effect if used in the right context, regardless of the skill of the dragon involved. You'll probably find the art of Dream Weaving a little more… accessible."

Spyro let out a sigh of relief – finally a dragon that wasn't going to try and dissuade him based on the Homeworld in which he was raised.

"Every ingredient you see on the shelf behind me holds a different property that makes it useful," the elder dragon gestured at the imposing collection to his rear. "The effects of each component have already been explored and inscribed for future use so there is very little trial and error. Whether you're looking to create a dream to assist with studying for an exam, or to gain a glimpse of the future, or just for a pleasant sleep, the necessary ingredients have been documented by the scholars who came before us."

Spyro's eyes gazed up at the towering cabinet in wonder, scanning the exotic contents of each bottle. Most he recognised – the rainbow wings of a beetle, the crushed petals of an orchid – but some appeared to have been plucked right out of a science fiction novel, or a bad fanfiction at that.

"So where do I come in?" he queried, his eyes resting on what appeared to be a snowstorm trapped within the glass confines of an urn.

Lateef handed the purple dragon a book, not even turning around to make sure it was the correct one. Spyro felt a sense of reprieve to find that this particular tome was nowhere near as thick or as worn as the last one he had been presented with. The cover was very… _unique_ , decorated with scribbles of clouds and rainbows that gave it an almost childlike quality.

"That tome does not contain an exhaustive list of ingredients and their effects, but it is useful for beginners," Lateef wistfully remarked, remembering the day he had been presented with the same book by his tutor. "You're welcome to use any of my constituents in any combination you like. I task you with brewing a sleep potion with some sort of effort _other_ than just to help you sleep, then drink it and let me know what the results were."

Spyro glanced up suddenly from the book, having already started to thumb through the pages distractedly as the images assaulted his eyes with bright colours.

"That's all?"

"Yep," the blue dragon replied, his expression not changing from his usual serene gaze.

"No catch?"

"Nope."

"… Do I have to make any potion in particular?"

"Nope."

Spyro looked back down at the book. He wasn't used to having such a hands-off instructor and was a little puzzled on where to even begin. The other elders had been very specific in their expectations of him, so the idea of being given free rein almost left him overwhelmed with possibility; he would have least appreciated a starting point. He was brought out of his reverie by the older dragon tousling the spines on the top of his head affectionately.

"You should have more faith in yourself, Spyro," the cobalt blue dragon remarked warmly. "For an Artisan you worry far too much."

Spyro huffed indignantly but did not respond. Tucking the tome under one arm he thanked the taller dragon and departed with his dragonfly in town, his mind still racing with the endless possibilities held within the pages. Lateef fully expected the dragon pup to dive horns first into the most difficult potion he could muster – he knew better than to try and deter the headstrong purple dragon and would even find himself disappointed if Spyro returned to tell him he had dreamt of puppies. He knew how reckless he was, and there was very little point in trying to change that while he was still so young.

Closing his eyes in meditation, he felt himself beginning to drift off. A poorly brewed potion would thankfully not suffer the same explosive results as an improperly Crafted spell, although a bad dream could potentially leave a young dragon with psychological scars. Lateef was content to simple sit back and let Spyro carve his own way. He briefly considered if he was being a little too inattentive, but his desire to snooze overrode any other obligations he had. His mind drifted into slumber, still in the same meditative stance he took before.

He hoped this time he would dream of good news for a change.

* * *

In his defence, Spyro had not given up as quickly as before.

He immediately found himself grasping the basic concept of Dream Weaving much faster than his excursion with Magic Crafting – the tome thankfully spent very little time covering the intricacies of elixirs and jumped straight to the ingredients he had to play with and what their effects were. He had begun to suspect that the book was perhaps intended to cater to dragons a little… _younger_ than he was, based on the pictures of cartoon dragons explaining everything in speech bubbles, so he didn't doubt that any other books covering the subject would become a boring wade through practises and traditions.

The purple dragon deduced that every concoction began with the same core ingredients and any added in excess to that would dictate the outcome on the drinker. Lavender to send the drinker to sleep. Kava leaves to reduce anxiety. Dried Pulsatilla petals for sedation. The rest of the potion seemed to be made of a milky solution brewed from freshly fallen snow, water from the fabled spring of life, and egg whites. The book even went into details about other more 'controversial' ingredients, such as the use of dragon wings for eternal life. Spyro briefly wondered how this particular property had been discovered, then resolved to never think about it again.

For all he found his footing quickly with the finer parts of Dream Weaving, the Homeworld was not exactly the most… _conductive_ for a session of intense studying. More than once he had found himself distracted by the site of a gaggle of invincible Fools thwacking each other over the head in some sort of twisted game. Considering they were impervious to damage they had been going at it for longer than Spyro had thought they would with no signs of stopping. He understand now why the Dream Weavers had a reputation for being nonsensical.

He made the decision to relocate once the cacophony of incessant warbling of the Slap-Happy Armoured Monks started to grate on his nerves. No wonder the Dream Weavers needed to use potions to get any sort of sleep around here; even Sparx was starting to look a little more antsy than usual, and he couldn't sit still at the best of times.

Besides, he was wondering if he needed a second opinion on this whole thing, and there was only one person that came to mind.

Spyro would maybe describe Elora as being a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, quick to ire but quicker to forgive, and there was no doubt that she was more sensible and down-to-earth than any dragon in the Dream Weavers Homeworld, Spyro included. He would never deny that he valued her opinion greatly, whether he had asked to receive it or not, and for all he couldn't see her being versed in the art of Dream Weaving in any capacity he could still appreciate any input she had to offer.

At least the faun had been easy to track down. Elora seemed to hold the lush green meadows and gentle flowing rivers of Summer Forest close to her heart, despite being the only faun Spyro had ever encountered there, and was tirelessly toiling away trying to get the Homeworld in some sort of presentable shape after Ripto had left his grubby fingerprints all over it. Even after such a long period of time had passed since the angry orange goblin had been overthrown, a lot of the damage he had left in his wake was still being rectified. Regardless, the welcoming atmosphere of the endless meadows had not changed and was a stark contrast against the dank swamp that was the Beast Maker Homeworld, if nothing else.

The two had exchanged small talk before they sat down in the grass together, Elora delicately building a chain of plucked flowers while Spyro explained the situation to her. She was flattered that he had chosen to approach her for assistance instead of any of the other dragons who were undoubtedly more affluent in the subject at hand, but the purple dragon seemed to hold her in high regard. At least she knew why he hadn't visited Avalar in so long – he couldn't go five minutes before involving himself in some sort of contrived scheme to take over the world. She wasn't totally convinced that the dragon dragged into Glimmer by the Professor just _happened_ to be Spyro by pure coincidence, rather than some form of cosmic intervention.

Elora would admit to being completely confounded over the whole situation – the idea of being raised by an entire community rather than a person's parents was not one she had encountered before – but she felt the dragon's plight. The notion of struggling to find one's place in a world that had seemingly already decided it for her was one she was not unaccustomed to, and she was more than willing to offer any council in the matter if she could.

"I mean, I don't know a whole lot about this 'Dream Weaving' stuff," she admitted, plucking another group of flowers from the grass to be added to her chain. "Well, I don't know a single thing about it."

"I know," Spyro responded, watching the ginger faun force her thumb nail through the stem of each flower and link it to the chain, "but I needed a second opinion and you're the most sensible person I know."

Elora stifled a blush before being abruptly handed the tome Spyro was previously nose-deep in. She had never encountered the craftsmanship of a dragon before, but she wasn't completely convinced that the book was not actually a children's colouring book and Spyro had just picked up the wrong one.

"It's very… colourful?" she stated as tactfully as she could managed.

"I'm aware," Spyro responded, deadpan. "I swear it's meant for children, the pages are even waterproof."

Elora giggled at the notion and flicked to the page that Spyro had been so invested in. The paper was lined with cartoonish diagrams of insects, all making peace signs or giving thumbs up, together with a list of potential uses or effects. The faun was surprised to find that she recognised a lot of the components, but some of them were completely foreign to her. How would one even go about collecting the skin of a unicorn anyway?

"So what kind of dream do you have in mind?" she questioned, crossing her hooves and getting more comfortable in the grass.

"Not a clue," Spyro admitted, laying his wings out on either side of his torso and soaking up the warm sunlight. "It's kind of ironic that this whole thing started because I couldn't sleep and now I'm trying to make a sleeping potion..."

Elora hummed in agreement, her attention still focused on the book in front of her. For all she was an inherently magical being in her own right the finer points of magic had never interested her. She much preferred to use her own wits and penchant for motivational speaking to her advantage, rather than rely on the crutch of a spell. Still, the idea of potion making had at least piqued her interest.

"This is fascinating," she mused, her eyes lighting up with interest at the array of exotic insects on display. "I wonder where you could even find a lot of these in the wild…"

"No idea," the dragon huffed, blowing a small puff of smoke out of his nostrils in irritation. "Most of them don't even seem to be native to the Dragon Realms. The majority of the ingredients covered are for peaceful dreams though, so I was probably going to follow that…"

Well, therein lay the problem. Spyro was by no means an incompetent chump, but Elora did sometimes wonder how he had come so far by being so blockheaded. Maybe smashing things with his head had given him brain damage. Shaking her head in bemusement, she closed the book and returned it to the sulking dragon, picking her daisy chain back up and finishing with the final flowers.

"That explain it then, you dork!" she stated matter-of-factly to the now confused dragon. "Since when have you ever tried to follow what someone else told you to do?"

Spyro's face held a befuddled expression as he looked back down at the cover of the book in his hands, Elora's words registering in his mind but not making sense. He heard the dry rustling of the leaves forming the faun's dress as she stood up and hooked the now completed flower crown over his canary yellow horns to rest on his brow bone. If he looked up hard enough he could see the yellow and purple petals hovering on the edge of his vision. He felt warmth rise inside him at the thought that the colours of the petals matched his own scales.

"Instead of caring about what other people _expect_ you to do, just do what you _want_ to do."

Elora tried to stifle a laugh at the sight of the now extremely perplexed purple dragon wearing a flower crown and grasping a children's book. Unable to control herself she ended up hunched over clutching her stomach in a laughing fit, rubbing her eyes as they began to water with the effort. She had _tried_ to be sage in her advice, but… well.

Spyro beheld the now hysterical faun as her words started to sink in, his attention cast back down to the book in his arms. He felt a smile creep across his face as Elora's elation was infectious. The flower crown slipped down his brow and landed across his eyes, obscuring his vision. He shook his head to move it out of the way, resulting in it resting around his neck like a wreath.

Hmm… that was a thought.

"How come you're so clever?" he joking asked Elora, who had sat back down to recover from her laughing fit. She shrugged.

"Guess I'm just that good."

And modest, clearly! Spyro let out a chuckle himself, finding his passion for the project reignited. For all the faun hadn't been able to help him narrow down his options for the potion, he felt revitalised; just what he needed. After such a serious and strenuous week it was refreshing to be able to sit down and have a laugh with a friend.

Plus, he might have figured out what his next steps were; he just needed to put it into practise.

* * *

The tome was very adamant that there was no specific combinations of ingredients that would guarantee a particular dream. Every component had a use, however it was up to the drinker to utilise the full value of the potion – most ingredients were just representative of an idea and the dragon would need to interpret that in their own way.

The elixir was essentially a musical score, but it was down to the drinker to play the symphony.

Spyro was by no means a musician, but being raised around Artisans meant he was at least able to grasp the metaphor. He had retreated back to the Dream Weaver Homeworld after his sojourn to Avalar and was hunched over Lateef's cauldron. The dragon pup had followed the instructions for the base potion and now had a softly bubbling milky white broth. It smelled absolutely _fowl_ – he blamed the egg whites – but it hadn't exploded or melted through the cast iron crucible so he felt like he was on the right track.

He was adamant on what sort of dream he was looking for: he had no use for a dream about practising public speaking, or learning about any past lives he may have had, or even about foreseeing the future. Almost every enemy he had faced against on his travels had been taken down with a single burst of flame or charge with his horns, barring those he could refer to as 'bosses'. Doctor Shemp, Gulp, Buzz. They had all taken a much longer struggle to defeat and Spyro felt like he needed practise.

The only problem was that he couldn't exactly walk out into the wilderness and fight a pack of Gulps like he could with the Gnorcs. They was only one, and he was already gone; if he could _dream_ about fighting them then maybe he could use it as a chance to try some tactics that he wouldn't be able to in real life for fear of failure. After all, if he messed up in his dream it wouldn't have any real world consequences.

Nodding to himself in determination, he slipped the flower wreath back over his head and held it firmly in one hand. He considered the fact that Elora had chosen to use Dandelions and Lobelia for the circlet might have been more than just to match his own colour scheme. Dandelion symbolised 'overcoming hardship' and Lobelia symbolised 'malevolence'; considering what he was planning on dreaming of, they would ideal. He was wary at the idea of destroying a gift from a close friend, but his current plight demanded his full cooperation.

Determined not to allow his hesitation to talk him out of it, he tossed the flower crown into the cauldron and watched it sink below the surface of the fluid.

Unwavering in his decision not to focus on the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach he used a stainless steel ladle to stir the mixture, turning the potion a magenta pink as the flower petals were dissolved into the solution. He was relieved to find that the noxious fumes were covered by the floral scent of the plants. After he was sure the potion was completely blended he used the ladle to scoop up a cup-sized amount and held it to his lips.

He was sure he was supposed to put it in a flask or something first, but considering he was just going to drink it straight away he decided to save on dishes to clean. Raising the ladle in cheers to Sparx who was watching on nervously, he downed the mixture in the spoon in one mouthful. Pulling a face, he noted that the floral highlights were not restricted to only the smell – it tasted like he had just eaten a mouthful of lawn shavings.

Shaking his head in disgust he fought down the nausea bubbling up in his stomach and flopped down onto the softest pillow he could find, curling his head under his tail. Lateef hadn't _technically_ told him he could also sleep in his house, but it wasn't like he was going to make the trek back to the Artisan Homeworld just to have a nap. Besides, he was pretty sure flying under the influence of a sleep potion would land him into trouble if he crashed.

He felt the potion begin to take effect almost immediately as he sunk deeper into the feather-down pillow. Sparx landed on his back and rested alongside the dragon as his eyelids drew closed on their own and he drifted off.

The first thing Spyro noticed was that he was aware he was dreaming. The world around him held an almost surreal quality, with the vibrant colours of the night sky of Winter Tundra muted and almost pastel. The position of the stars in the sky seemed to change every time he blinked and his limbs felt light, as though they weren't attached to the rest of his body. It certainly wasn't uncomfortable per se, but Spyro could tell that what he was experiencing wasn't real.

He was pleased to find that his elixir had worked – he was in the palace courtyard surrounded by rivers of open lava and facing against Ripto once more. The orange pest was as rage filled as always, but Spyro couldn't understand what he was saying. Not that this mattered: now the two could fight again and Spyro could get some much needed practise in!

Ripto raised his glowing purple Sceptre above his head in an overly dramatic fashion and blasted a cluster of white orbs at high speed towards the purple dragon. Grinning to himself he quickly charged back and forth in a zigzag pattern, feeling his heart pumping as the balls of light narrowly avoided searing his scales. Now this was familiar to him! He skidded to a halt and began to excitedly scan the arena for the powered up orbs that Hunter would drop for him.

No orbs materialised, and the sky was devoid of any flying cheetahs.

Glancing around in confusion, he spotted Ripto running around the arena as if he was still trying to collect orbs but nothing had fallen for him to use. The Professor was supposed to have infused the green spheres with various abilities that both Spyro and Ripto could use against each other after collecting enough, but nothing was happening. The purple dragon was frozen in mystification – this wasn't how he remember it!

This feeling grew into fear as Ripto tersely stopped in his tracks and hunched over in pain. Letting out a ferocious howl the dragon watched on in terror as he began to grow at an astonishing rate, tearing through his clothes and yowling in apparent pain. Fangs began to protrude from his jaw and his single horn became a large, wicked spear. The transformation only stopped when Ripto stood at four times Spyro's height, towering over him in a mockery of his previously tiny stature.

Still struck with fright at the transformation, Spyro wasn't able to react in time and found himself being punted across the arena, stopping just shy of the lava pit that enclosed the duo. The monster that was previously Ripto snarled in victory, sending shivers down the dragon's spine. He had wanted to use his dream to face off against his nemesis again, but not like this! Spyro prided himself on his ability to think on his feet, but his mind was so astonished at the dramatic change in events that he couldn't bring himself to retaliate.

" **WAS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED,** _ **DRAGON?!**_ **"** the monstrous orange dinosaur roared, the bestial rage in his voice echoing off the stone walls of the castle. **"IS THIS WHO YOU ARE?!"**

Spyro's mouth felt parched like he hadn't drunk water in days. Ripto growled and charged at the incapacitated dragon again, his feet cracking the stone underfoot with his newfound weight. He fully intended to lob Spyro into the lava behind him – a fitting end considering Ripto himself had suffered the same fate at the dragon's hands. None of his limbs would respond as the orange dinosaur closed the gap between the two, spit frothing at his mouth and eyes hungry for revenge. Realising that he wasn't going to be able to get out of the warpath in time, Spyro gasped and folded his wings in front of his head to protect himself from as much damage as he could.

The impact never came.

Opening his eyes and peeking through a gap in his wings, Spyro found himself in an oriental style dojo perched precariously on a cliff side and surrounded by dull green and yellow grass. Feeling his heart racing in his chest he dug his claws into the tatami mat under his feet and tried to calm down. It was clear that he was no longer in Avalar, or indeed in any location he had visited prior. All that mattered was that he was still alive.

Slowing his breathing he took in the area. The sky was breath taking, streaked with pink and gold light from somewhere beyond the horizon, but he noticed how dull the area seemed to be. All the colours seemed to be desaturated and hollow, and even the environment was barren with only the occasional dragonfly hovering around, staring at the foreign dragon in their midst. Spyro wasn't sure if he was seeing the realm in a different light because he was dreaming, or if the world itself was indeed so devoid of life. Then again, it might not even exist at all. And why was Moneybags in a kimono?!

His head pounding with conflicting emotions, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots to try and clear his mind. When he reopened them he had moved again, now finding himself in a large industrial facility with conveyor belts and metal grates on almost every surface. Seems like Red was using a combination of magic and technology to transform his minions into indestructible robots. The Beast Makers would either be proud or horrified.

Speaking of the menace, Red had finally found it within himself to show up. Spyro readied himself – he was more than capable of taking the disgraced elder down and was itching for a fight. Electricity burned in his throat, ready to shock the ruby dragon if he came within five feet of him. He was tired of being underestimated by everyone who met him and the desire to enact justice flowed through his veins.

Charging at the dragon, Spyro was shocked to find that Red did not respond to his presence, as if his mind was somehow elsewhere. Snorting in irritation he head-butted the elder as hard as he could, sending the taller dragon toppling to the floor like a fallen tree. As he skidded backwards with the force of the impact he collided with an ambiguous machine to his rear which began sparking violently, wires hanging loose due to the damage inflicted.

Before Red could pull himself to his feet, a might bolt of electricity leapt from the tear in the machine and struck the dragon, sending him into violent spasms. Spyro shielded his eyes from the intense burst of light, only to find that Red had been transformed into a robot himself. How ironic. Red inspected his now reflective scarlet metal exoskeleton, seemingly unfazed, before pulling himself back to his feet. He didn't seem to care: he viewed it as just another tool to use in his quest for retribution against the dragons who had exiled him. Plus, he could shoot rockets now, which was always nice.

Spyro braced himself for the imminent conflict, but this never came. His stomach churning with vertigo, he was wrenched away from the scene before the metallic fiend could attack and leave him nothing more than a red smear on the ground.

The eerie galactic skies of Convexity were doubtlessly beautiful, but betrayed the venomous aura that permeated the entire dimension. A sense of malignancy could be felt in the air, the magic saturated in every breath tingling against Spyro's tongue and leaving a metallic aftertaste in its wake. A bellowing echo reverberated against his ear drums from a Void Whale languidly drifting in the distance.

Sparx said something unintelligible, the purple dragon still unable to comprehend any words being spoken, but he didn't doubt that it was probably steeped in sarcasm. Exchanging a look with his brother, he pushed on over the floating rocks towards what appeared to be the centre of the dimension. A bright purple bolt of lightning shot up in perpetuity from a blindingly bright light source, probably some kind of black hole. No one would describe Convexity as lacking in interest, at least.

Spyro was intensely nervous but resolute in his stance. He carried the weight of the world on his flightless shoulders, and was reinforced by the thought of the other dragons waiting at home for him. Steeling his nerves and followed closely by the dragonfly who had refused to allow him to go alone, he took a step forwards towards the light.

Hearing a crash behind him, Spyro turned around in time to see the shadow of a towering black dragon open her mouth and snap shut around his head.

A dragon sat at a desk, surrounded by copious mounds of books and illuminated only by the soft glow of an oil lamp. He wrote with a quill, occasionally dipping the tip into an ink well as he continued to expand the contents of the newest tome. Closing the covers of the book with finality he tossed it over his shoulder onto the top of the pile behind him, and picked up a fresh book. Etching a continuous stream of words onto the first page of the new tome without pause, his grey scales shifted into blue as he adjusted his position to address the purple dragon.

" _You shall know me as the Chronicler. Seek me out."_

Spyro woke.

* * *

Lateef remembered the first dream he had Weaved.

He could not remember any time that he would have considered himself as being more powerful than any other dragon whose name was spoken in the same breath. He was decidedly mediocre, competent enough to avoid blowing himself up but without any unique talent that might have set him apart from the next dragon. He was average for his size, average for his weight, and average in his personality.

He didn't mind. The Dream Weavers did not place a strong focus on those uniquely gifted, or even a strong focus on tutoring. The Homeworld was a tranquil place, undisturbed by conflict or complications since before Lateef was hatched, and the majority of dragons were content for that to continue. Why cause distress in a young developing dragon when they could be allowed to play and learn freely on their own? Why encourage _any_ dragon to delve into their specific talents when the act of Dream Weaving was so accessible to any level of ability? Lateef wasn't even sure he could remember having a mentor at all, and certainly not any kind of formal training.

He was passably confident that he may never have been trained in Dream Weaving at all if he hadn't been so insistent. The leader, a youthful green dragon born maybe only a couple of clutches before Lateef himself, seemed content with allowing each dragon to pursue their own goals and achievements with little to no input on his behalf. Lateef appreciated that he was not forced to attention the prison camp that was school, but was a little dismayed that the opportunity to learn may have completely passed him by.

The leader had been prepared to coach the young Lateef in the ways of Dream Weaving, which turned out to be nothing more than giving him a book detailing the process and sending him on his merry way so that he could sleep. The cyan dragon had been concerned that the leader spent a lot of time drinking his own potions and slumbering, but he couldn't deny that the idea of nothing but blissful dreams for the rest of his life sounded rapturous.

He had followed the instructions given to him, produced a potion, and slept for twelve hours. He dreamt of vast meadows of poppies and cathedrals made of gold. He skipped stones across a frozen glacier and made s'mores in an open volcano. He explored the entirely of the Dragon Realms without leaving the comfort of his home.

So why wasn't he gratified?

His potion had worked – he had experienced the dream he was looking for, but he felt a sorrowful emptiness in his stomach. Following the instructions to the letter hadn't satisfied his curiosity. He wanted to try dreams that no one had ever dreamt before, good or bad, and use ingredients in new and inventive ways. He wasn't appeased by just throwing flowers and bugs in a pot and then getting eight hours a night.

He hadn't twigged as to the cause of his unhappiness until the leader passed away. He had been consuming more and more of his own potions, needing multiple doses to get a restful sleep. Lateef knew that the carefree quality of sleep awarded by Dream Weaving was intoxicating, but he hadn't know it was addictive. How easy was it to just roll over and go back to sleep instead of facing the difficulties of real life. When had the Dream Weavers become so dependent on their elixirs to the point where they would freely ignore their own existence for the sake of an extra hour in bed?

Lateef didn't like what the Dream Weavers had become.

He didn't see himself as an overly serious individual, still preferring a lifetime of play and leisure over petty politics, but he wouldn't allow his Realm to fall into such a dire state of apathy. He knew there had to be a happy medium, but even _he_ struggled to find where this was. He was at least grateful to Spyro for rescuing him and his kin from crystal – it forced the otherwise hapless dragons to face the realities that they had been so stringently avoiding.

He was devastated when he learned Spyro had a night terror under his watch.

Lateef would admit that he didn't really know the young dragon all that well: Dream Weavers tended to be a little reclusive when it came to the other Realms. The only times he had encountered the purple dragon revealed him to be a cocky and innocent child, filled with wonder and enthrallment at the world around him. Seeing him in a state of distress was not an experience the cobalt blue dragon wanted to have again.

After calming the young dragon down, he covered the dream he had suffered through with vivid details, gesturing wildly as his Artisan blood showed itself through his imagination. Lateef was not surprised that Spyro had gone for a theme that was outside the norm for Dream Weaving, but he _was_ surprised to hear that he had such a violent reaction to the elixir. He probably should have mentioned that the recipe was intended for an adult dragon, so he should have perhaps halved the measurements…

"It's difficult for me to say what exactly you experienced," Lateef consoled as Spyro began to calm down. "Judging by the fact that you mentioned the dragon 'Red', whom you will hopefully never cross paths with, it would appear that you had a prophetic dream."

Spyro finally began to calm down, his dragonfly buzzing around in worry. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and did his best to steady his breathing.

"Are you sure?" he queried.

"Not at all!" Lateef laughed warmly. "The future is very unpredictable and volatile and can be changed by even the smallest thing. It's possible that what you witnessed will never come true, and it's equally possible that events may take place exactly as you witnessed them."

Spyro felt his wings sag in disappointment – if this turned out to be the case it meant that Ripto had somehow survived his cannonball into lava, and he had already had more than enough of the cheeto villain. Then again, he supposed that his dream had fulfilled what he wanted. He now had a chance to prepare and consider a strategy to defend himself should the need arise. Lateef patted the young dragon on the shoulder affectionately.

"Anxiety begets apathy, young one," he stated cryptically. "There is no use in worrying about what may not come to be, otherwise you may find yourself unable to take action if it does."

Spyro sighed.

"You're right," he admitted. "And I guess I still had the dream that I asked to have, although maybe looking back it wasn't the one I wanted."

Lateef nodded, pleased that his advice was sinking in.

"Are you going to return to Nestor now?"

Spyro rubbed the spines on his nape in thought.

"... Not yet," he replied wistfully. "I guess I still have one more Realm to visit."

Lateef was confused for a moment before Spyro's words took hold. He nodded in understanding and allowed the tired dragon and his dragonfly to depart his home. He had hoped that his instruction in the Dream Weavers arts would have left the purple dragon in better spirits but he was content knowing that his time in the Homeworld was not for nought. He reflected on his previous sentiment that he was being too hands-off, and remembering the sloth of the leader before him, resolved to do better in the future.

Using the ladle, he siphoned a sizable amount of Spyro's potion from the cauldron into a glass bottle and capped it with a cork. The mixture was now cold, but Lateef liked preserving the first attempt of each dragon he had taught – it was always good to whip them out at birthday parties and embarrass them. Chortling to himself, he wrote the ingredients used on a label and attached it to the side of the bottle before stopping himself.

Spyro hadn't used any ingredients that would have caused a clairvoyant dream.

Eyes widening, he perused the list of components again to be sure. He had expected Spyro to have used something like Swallowwort, or Crayfish shells, or maybe he had even dipped into his prized pot of Unicorn skin for him to have had such a divinatory slumber. But no, nothing of the sort had contributed to the elixir, meaning that the clarity of the dream and the fact that Spyro had a precognitive dream at _all_ must have been done under his own power.

Lateef shook his head and cast the thought out of his mind. It was not possible to know if the dragon pup's experience was indicative of future events or if they would eventually come to pass after all, or even that he wasn't just having an intense nightmare. He would do good to follow his own advice and not allow concern for something that may never occur to sway his hand.

Lighting a stick of incense to calm his nerves, he sat back on his tail and crossed his legs, running his claws through his feathered wings and preening them. Spyro was no doubt a lot of work, but the sapphire dragon felt like he had the wind kicked out of him. His mind wandered back to the Legend of the Purple Dragon and he smiled to himself.

Seems like the Council of Elders would need to convene one more time.


	6. Chapter 6

(We almost there, thank God I didn't have to write any dialogue this time)

* * *

Spyro wasn't sure what had brought him to Gnorc Gnexus in the first place.

Very few dragons still considered the former Dragon Junk Yard to be one of the Dragon Realms any more – this was the case long before Gnasty Gnorc was forcibly imprisoned within the cast iron borders of the Homeworld. Of course, the continued residence of the ugly green orc had not helped in that regard, but no dragon had resided within the wastelands for millennia before then. Only the most intrepid of dragons or bravest of Balloonists would even be willing to make the trek to the isolated lands. Even the inherent magic of the place had faded, still barely clinging to life as the years passed and the Realm became more and more out of touch.

Gnorc Gnexus wasn't even on the list of worlds Spyro had planned to visit, considering there was no elder to learn from and no dragons that called the dismantled Realm their home, but he had found himself inexplicably drawn there. He could at least justify the cause – he _had_ embarked on his journey in order to learn about the other worlds and try to determine his place in them after all, and the former Dragon Junk Yard _was_ one of said worlds…

That being said, he still found himself distinctly on edge. The foreboding aura that seemed to envelop the area had mostly dispersed after Gnasty had been given the old hot-foot, but the air itself seemed to be weighed down with a sense of neglect and abandonment. Spyro deliberated if anybody had even disturbed the layers of dust on the ground after he had ventured here last. Very few history books covered the denizens who had previously inhabited the Realm; it almost seemed like the remaining dragons were happy for the Realm to simply fall into obscurity.

Spyro just wanted to get away from it all for a while. He hated feeling ambivalent about anything; the words and teachings of the leaders still whirled in his head like a typhoon and he hadn't completely processed them. Combine that with his own lingering sensation of self-worth and it produced a noxious mind-set that was still eating away at him. He didn't want any second opinions, he didn't want any lectures on morality, he just wanted some time alone. Even if it was only for a moment.

Sparx was loathe to leave the purple dragon unattended, especially considering that Spyro's mood had notably dimmed with each Homeworld he voyaged to, but the purple dragon insisted. Even Amos the Balloonist had tried to convince him otherwise, but no one would ever describe Spyro as being fickle or easily swayed. Reassuring the increasingly concerned dragonfly that he would be back before sunset, he had boarded the balloon to the desolate wastelands.

Dropping the young dragon off, Amos had refused to dock in Gnorc Gnexus for long, citing the inherently unwelcoming atmosphere. He had loosed a few sandbags from the side of the airship and advised Spyro that he would return to collect him before his self-imposed curfew, but he would not leave himself open to attack by waiting around. Spyro couldn't necessary blame him – he was grateful that he had even agreed to ferry him at _all_ – and wholeheartedly agreed. He just had to make sure he didn't lose track of time, otherwise he'd be forced to spend the night, and that was a fate he didn't want to consider.

He had felt a rush of nostalgia hit him at the sight of the dragon heads in the Homeworld. Very little remained of the essence of the dragons that had once inhabited the Realm, either due to neglect or intentionally defaced by Gnasty and his gremlins, but the portals had stood the test of time. The only other portal of its kind could be found in the Artisan Homeworld, constructed as a replica of the originals after the Dragon Junkyard had been abandoned. Spyro couldn't help but wonder about the stories of the dragon that bore the visage of the portals.

Breaking eye contact with the imposing construct, he entered Gnorc Cove. The purple dragon didn't really have any destination in mind, content to aimlessly wander the lands and reflect. It had been a long time since he was able to choose a direction and just meander, even more so now that the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been permanently erected, so it was almost liberating to have no final goal to work towards.

Spyro was actually pleasantly surprised for once.

It seemed like the former shipyard had benefitted greatly from Gnasty's absence. For all the docks were just as gloomy and utilitarian as before, the water was notably less polluted and didn't smell of rancid waste. The rambunctious honking of seagulls seemed echo off every surface, and although the cacophony started to reverberate through Spyro's skull, the gentle crashing of waves against the docks calmed his nerves a little.

Making his way over the rickety and rotting wooden bridges, and wondering why they hadn't been made of metal, he noted that he felt oddly relaxed. The last time he had found himself in Gnorc Cove the area had been a hive of activity, with silver barrels plunging into the inky depths of the bay at an astonishing rate, TNT barrels being thrown around like toys, and the repeated bellowing of a ship horn. He had never discovered what Gnasty had been using the cove for, but he had suspected that it was actually closer to the intended purpose of the docks than he original thought.

Now that the flurry of movement and clanging has ceased, a tranquil atmosphere had enveloped the area. Spyro found his attention cast back to his time in Breeze Harbour, but shook his head before he could think too much about the repugnant trolley track. Gnorc Cove didn't hold a candle to any of the seaside resort he was familiar with and likely never would, but the purple dragon found himself appreciating the solitude and rustic ambience more.

He still gave the TNT barrels a wide berth. He wasn't about to forget _those._

He breathed in deeply, feeling the sting of the salt on the wind tingling his nostrils. His mind was cast back to the sensation he experienced with Lateef's rock salts, although the sea air was much more pleasant and less overwhelming. His mind had calmed from the onslaught he had faced and he found himself able to interpret the events of his dream with a more rational mind. Rather than focus on the crushing fear he had experiences, his mind was already ticking over the events he had witnessed.

Firstly, if what he saw was correct then Ripto had somehow survived. This wasn't all that implausible, seeing as the Sorceress had initially survived her dip into lava the first time, but the magic he had used to transform into… _whatever_ that was didn't jive with Spyro's admittedly limited encounters with magic. He had faced off against larger enemies before so he felt a little disconcerted that he found himself so easily overpowered, but chalked it up to being caught off guard.

The part that was bothering him the most began with the conflict with this 'Red' character. He was sure he had heard the name before, whispered under baited breath and closed doors, but he couldn't put a claw on it. Even more worrying was the fact that he had clearly been belligerent towards other dragons, and Spyro didn't know any dragon that wasn't part of the Realms. He wondered why Lateef had wished that the two would never cross paths, but the unnerved feeling in his stomach conformed to this sentiment.

Spyro was suddenly stopped in his tracks by walking headfirst into a large mass blocking his path. Wincing as his snout was smooshed by the impact he fell back on his hind legs and gingerly rubbed his nose, grateful that no one who mattered was there to witness that. He was doing exactly what Lateef had told him _not_ to do – he was spending too much time worrying about something that might not even happen. Besides, even if the events seen in his dream did turn out to be an accurate prophecy, would Spyro even be able to change the course of fate? If he couldn't prevent the events themselves from occurring, if the future was already set in stone, was it worth his time giving himself anxiety over it?

The blockade Spyro had meandered in to let out a deep grunt as it pulled itself up from the cold concrete floor. Blearily rubbing its eyes as if woken from sleep, it rolled over almost crushing the purple dragon. As he sharply hopped back out of the way, the two made eye contact, the sudden flicker of recognition registering in the monster's eyes.

It was a very large and very sleepy Dockworker.

Spyro felt himself reflexively jerk back in preparation. The Gnorc, now fully awake at the sight of the dragon, let out a bellowing roar and pulled itself to its feet. The purple dragon might have been away from Gnorc Cove for a long time, but the burning desire for revenge was still strong within the black heart of the minion. Casting his eyes back, Spyro noted that the howl had alerted some of the other snoozing denizens which were clamouring to see the cause of the commotion.

Spyro's mind instinctively ticked over his options. On one hand he could take the Gnorc out on his own, but the armour it was wearing would protect it from his flame, at least from the front. If he could get behind it he could torch its butt, or if he could lure it towards a metal barrel he could use that to break it's armour.

On the _other_ hand, Spyro was without the fortification provided by Sparx so even a single hit could be enough to incapacitate the young dragon, and it was clear the Gnorcs' hatred of dragons had not diminished. Plus, what was previously a single drowsy Gnorc was rapidly becoming hoard, and for all Spyro knew he had defended himself against more than enough Gnorcs in his lifetime, if something happened to him then Amos wouldn't be returning until the evening so he was completely on his own.

He spotted a Gnorc in his peripheral vision tentatively reaching for a TNT barrel.

His mind turned back to the advice given to him by Titan – it was important to pick and choose his battles. Spyro's gut was telling him he would torch these fools no problem, but his head was telling him that he was massively outnumbered. Noting that the Gnorcs were starting to approach and the Dockworker had picked up a TNT barrel ready to smash it off the dragon's head, he made his decision.

He turned and ran.

Wincing as the harsh scraping of a metal barrel against the ground skidded past his head, he charged away as fast as his legs would carry him back towards the way he had come in. He couldn't leave a Realm the same way he had come in, but maybe he could duke the Gnorcs and zip around them somehow. He might be unable to overpower them, but he could certainly outsmart them. Then again, a cheese sandwich could probably outsmart a Gnorc.

Jumping over a chasm between storage units to avoid the haphazard bridge, he unfurled his leathery wings and glided safely to the ground. He turned his head to see several Gnorcs attempt to cross the bridge at once, resulting in the rotten wood splintering beneath their feet and plummeting them into the icy waters. Snickering at their misfortune and gloating that his intuition was correct, he ducked behind one of the storage crates and wiggled his way into a gap between the slabs of corrugated metal. He hoped his scales would protect him from tetanus…

This was just in the nick of time – as the purple dragon disappeared into the crawlspace a large explosion detonated where he had once stood, set off by a lobbed TNT barrel. The heat dried his eyes out, but his tough hide was more than enough to prevent the amethyst scales from being singed. He ducked in an attempt to make his silhouette as small as he could and watched nervously as the shadows of the minions darted past, unable to see the retreating dragon but lacking the foresight to consider checking the crowded storage area.

Spyro waited until the coast was clear before emerging from the improvised cubby hole. He didn't like using such underhanded tactics instead of facing his problems head-on, but if his time in Misty Bog had taught him anything his stealth skills had clearly improved. Discovering that the Gnorc's were now wandering around confusedly at the realisation that they had lost their target, the dragon pup took the opportunity to leg it towards the exit portal.

This was far more excitement than he had wanted!

* * *

Twilight Harbour had… not fared as well as Gnorc Cove.

Spyro didn't believe for one second that the Gnorc's had enough brain cells between them to build such an enormous factory on their own; it was more likely that they had simply re-purposed what was already there. Gnasty's influence had made an enormous impact on the Harbour and left it in a dire condition.

The factory was deactivated – obviously – but it seemed that this was not intentional. Spyro had not returned after his last visit, and he doubted any other dragon had done so, meaning that the engines and machinery had been left running. It wasn't clear how long ago this had changed, but more than one building had the roof blown clean off so he assumed that the machinery had perhaps overheated or failed due to neglect, and this was the result.

The pleasant ocean air still washed over the walkways, but the scent of sea salt on the wind was stifled by the thick miasma of oil and sludge. The degradation of the factory had resulted in a substantial oil spill, tainting the formerly golden reflective waters a murky brown. Even as Spyro walked he kicked up rust from the grating beneath his feet, making him concerned that the walkways could give way beneath him.

Spyro felt his heart grow heavy. This was not the first world he had encountered that had been ravaged by pollution, but this was the worst he had ever seen it. What remained of the dragon's presence was lost beneath piles of sewage and oxidation – he felt sorrow knowing that he would probably never know anything of the dragons who used to reside in this Realm. Gnasty had obliterated anything that remained of the magic that would have saturated this place, either on purpose in an attempt to wipe out all evidence of the dragons that he loathed, or out of ignorance.

The purple dragon couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt for the current state of the Realm. He knew it wasn't exactly his responsibility to make sure the factory was decommissioned before he left, but he wondered if he should have tried to convince the dragons to reclaim the Gnorc Gnexus rather than the Forgotten Realms.

Slapping himself, he tried to get this thought out of his head. The dragons had already written the former Junk Yard off well before Spyro had hatched, so it was likely already beyond the point where it could be saved. In comparison, the Forgotten Realms had been clinging on to the remaining magic for almost 3000 years – he couldn't necessarily blame the others for wanting to invest their time in the gold bar, rather than the lump of coal.

He morosely meandered through the Realm without purpose, the cascading golden rays of the perpetual sunset peeking through the clouds and warming the scales on Spyro's back. The gentle crashing of waves against the metal was still as soothing as before, and did a lot to take the edge off his nerves. Despite the repugnant atmosphere of Twilight Harbour, he still found himself feeling more relaxed as time went on. At least he hadn't been jumped on by any oversized Gnorcs yet, so that was always a plus.

Speaking of which, Spyro's attention was grabbed by what seemed to be a warm flickering light coming from one of the factory buildings. It could just be the permanent sunset reflecting off one of the many metallic surfaces, or maybe a fire had broken out, but his curiosity was piqued. Afraid of another potential ambush, he carefully creeped towards the building and peered inside.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden light as he found himself looking directly at a burning fire pit.

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he saw a small group of Gnorcs wearing camo print huddling around a campfire. He felt a brief flutter in his chest seeing that they still bore the firearms on their backs, but they weren't paying attention to their surrounds at all. One of the larger looking grunts wearing leopard print pants and a torn red beret was cooking what seemed to be a rat on a stick, smoking it over the open flame with the others looked on, openly salivating.

Spyro felt conflicted at the sight. He knew that approaching them was a bad idea, especially considering they were heavily armed so he kept his distance, but something seemed to be off about this. Why were the Gnorcs still fervently protecting the dying Realm with their leader terminated? They were still even wearing Gnasty's uniform, some with medals made of metal scraps still proudly displayed on their chests. It seemed like Gnasty's authority still held weight over his minions, even in death.

The Gnorcs were clearly too hungry and to impatient to continue waiting, and started squabbling over the toasted rat. The Gnorc Survivalist held the stick above his head while the others tried to bat it out of his hand, swiping at the morsel of meat hungrily. One of them inadvertently punched the other in the face which devolved into an all-out brawl, none of the monsters noticing that the rat had fallen into the fire and was now no more than a lump of charcoal.

Spyro shook his head in dismay and decided to leave the scrapping monsters to themselves. He remembered the advice given to him by Bruno – dragons could not and _should_ not decide who does and doesn't deserve to live. The young dragon got the distinct impression that the elder would have taken out the Gnorcs without a second thought, seeing as they could be a potential threat, but from what Spyro could see they were simply choosing to continue guarding the Realm they had sworn to protect. Besides, if they were considering mounting an attack on any of the other Realms then would wouldn't still be posted within the confines of Twilight Harbour.

He almost considered their dedication to their former master a noble cause.

What was he doing, trying to empathise with the Gnorcs who had previously attempted to shoot and kill him? The monsters certainly wouldn't spend their time pondering the moral repercussions of their actions while trying to pump a kilo of lead into the small dragon. Spyro wondered when he had become so introspective and when the worlds stopped being so black and white to him. Sighing and continuing with his journey, he ventured to his last port of call.

* * *

The peaceful atmosphere that had fallen over Gnasty's Loot was quickly disturbed by whooping as Spyro took to the skies in free flight.

He dove and span through the air, dodging between piping and narrowly avoiding being seared by the open lava. He flew as low as was safe and as high as he dared, pushing the magic that allowed his to fly with no restrictions to its absolute limit. He beat his wings as hard as his muscles would let him and flew straight up, gaining height until he breached the reach of the magic trapped within the boundaries of the world. He paused in his ascent before quickly falling back down to earth, opening his wings at the last moment and soaring against the ground in exhilaration.

Spyro still detested the fact that he was unable to fly under his own magic. He could take on whole armies on his own, Craft spells, Weave dreams, but he still didn't have the power of free flight. He knew the size of his wings had nothing to do with it – some of the older dragons had wings barely larger than their heads for crying out loud – and that this ability was completely dependent on a dragon's own magic reserves, but he still needed supplementary magic from the environment to manage anything more than a brief glide.

He dodged beneath three rusty pipes that jutted precariously out of a wall and curved back into the ground beneath him, gritted his fangs, then angled himself upwards into a loop. Feeling his eyes spinning slightly in his head he spun himself mid-air in an aileron roll before his face and the ground became too closely acquainted. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, fuelled by adrenaline.

The purple dragon had always had an inkling that the world now known as 'Gnasty's Loot' was previously a flight training course, like Sunny Flight from the Artisans Homeworld. There were no other worlds in all of the Dragon Realms where the saturation of magic was so intense that it was buoyant enough to allow even the smallest dragon whelp to fly under their own power, even in the Realms still occupied by the dragons. Spyro's mind wandered to consider the dragons that would have trained in these grounds before him, honing their acrobatic abilities ready for true flight once they reached the right age. He smiled at the thought that he was following in their footsteps. Well, wing beats.

Spyro skidded to a halt on a patch of mossy earth, wincing as he landed harder than he intended and the impact reverberated through his knees, and admired the locale. Gnasty had clearly found very little use for this world as it had been mostly untouched by the corruption he seemed to leave in his wake, and nature had returned to take back what was lost. Almost every surface was covered in moss and plants, some even flowering despite the tumultuous conditions, and he could see the tops of perennial trees peeking above the borders of the Realm when he flew to the highest point. The chirping of birds could be heard from an unseen direction.

Panting at the exertion of his flying, Spyro lay down and rubbed his back into the earth, feeling the blades of grass tickling between his scales and the scent of pollen in the air. Oddly enough, he was reminded of the sprawling meadows of the Artisan Homeworld; if he closed his eyes long enough he could almost believe that he was back home.

Almost.

Even though this Realm was mostly intact, the absence of dragons had continued to take its toll. In the other flight training worlds Spyro was able to fly as high and as long as he dared, but in Gnasty's Loot he could only fly as high as his last perch. It was obvious that the magic had started to siphon itself out of the world, no longer powerful enough to act on its own and needing the inherent magic of a dragon to function. Gnasty would not have been able to utilise the magic in the area so the continued neglect had caused it to dissipate. Spyro wondered how long it would last before the world was no longer able to sustain free flight and it became as barren as any of the other worlds in Gnorc Gnexus.

Huffing and spitting a small smoke cloud from his nostrils, he linked his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He had lost track of time in Twilight Harbour, being that the Realm was in a constant state of sunset, but the dusk had started to fall over the Homeworld as a whole, indicating that his time was coming to a close. He had ventured to Gnorc Gnexus to have a chance to relax and get away from his obligations, but had done the exact opposite. His ability to find trouble wherever he went even surprised _him_ sometimes.

Spyro reflected on his experiences with the other elders. It was clear to him now that he had a _lot_ of misconceptions as to what the other Dragon Realms contributed to their society, although he was honoured that they had all agreed to take time out of their undoubtedly busy lives to entertain the purple dragon and his whims.

He had seen the Magic Crafters as wizard with unlimited power, but in reality they were bound themselves by a self-imposed set of rules, whether that was a good thing or not. He had seen the Peace Keepers as heroic machos that defended the Realms with their bare hands, but in reality they were cautious and meticulous, preferring to strike with precision and with the right timing. He had seen the Beast Makers as backwards shamans obsessed with dangerous creatures, but in reality they grappled with the moral implications of their actions on the daily. And he had seen the Dream Weavers as airheaded and incomprehensible sleep addicts, but in reality they were relied on by countless dragons and non-dragons alike for their wellbeing.

He wondered if he had any misconceptions about the Artisans.

He also considered that the elders were not perfect. Cosmos had insisted that the use of Sigils was paramount to success, but was unable to consider the possibility of triumph without using then. Titan had insisted that adhering to a specific role in a team was necessary, yet his narrow-sightedness has delayed a resolution to the conflict. Bruno had lectured that dragons should not decide the fate of those seen as beneath them, but had made that decision himself when he detonated the explosives to take out the Attack Frogs. And Lateef had stressed that making himself anxious over something he could not control was unwise, yet he himself was so laid back that he had not taken the needed steps to ensure Spyro was properly informed before he Weaved his own dream.

Speaking of which, Spyro sat up suddenly and clasped his palms together. Closing his eyes he allowed his magic to well up in his belly and trickle down his arms before clapping his hands together. A bouquet of golden sparks erupted from his clasped palms, coagulating together and forming a gold and pink butterfly. Spyro let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding – for all he still wasn't finding Sigils to be particularly useful it was good to know that the spell he had Crafted was still viable.

He also noted that it was much easier this time. His arms tingled but there was no pain, and he didn't feel out of breath in any way like he did the first time. He was either getting better at keeping his magic in check, or he was funnelling more magic into the spell. Either way, he beamed at the sign of improvement.

Watching the butterfly flutter away and land on a patch of marigolds, he considered the Dragon Junk Yard. Part of him mourned at the loss of the world, seemingly beyond the point of restoration, yet another quieter part of him felt hopeful. It may only be restricted to Gnasty's Loot, but nature had already begun to take the Realm back from the clutches of Gnasty; it would hopefully be only a matter of time before the other more impacted worlds returned to the earth like this one. They might never be useful to the dragons again, but just because they were not useful to them didn't meant that they had to interfere.

Spyro wanted to see the lands restored to their original glory, but perhaps allowing nature to take its course was an equally agreeable option.

Spyro was not opposed to the idea that he was not the most intellectual of dragons, but he was not stupid. He had heard of the Legend of the Purple Dragon, although any information given was mostly through hearsay and rumours. Before he had even left the Artisan Homeworld he had perused the parchments written by Nestor, intended for only the eyes of his peers but the dragon pup had been unable to control his insatiable curiosity and disregard for authority.

He didn't want to entertain the idea that the legend could be referring to himself. Not only had there been many purple dragons before him and there would be many after him, including several dragons he had rescued from the talons of the Sorceress, Spyro still considered himself humble. He didn't want special treatment because he was the one to take up the gauntlet each time trouble arose, nor did he want to be considered to be 'above' anyone else because of his reputation.

Besides, he didn't embark on all those adventures just because some crusty old dragon had written it in a book. He did it because he _wanted_ to.

Smiling to himself, he stood back on his feet. Whether there was any remaining magic in this Realm didn't matter – there were creatures that called this place 'home' and that made it worthy of protection. Vowing to return in the future, he turned his back on the once forgotten Realm and began the journey back to the Homeworld. He didn't want to keep Amos waiting.

As he was about to depart through the exit portal, Spyro turned his back to gaze at the Realm one more time. Something caught his eye – the spot he had been lying on had suddenly sprouted a vast array of flowers, all blooming in the dwindling sunlight in every colour of the rainbow. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it too much. After all, if dragons could bring their magic back to the Forgotten Realms, who was to say that dragons couldn't bring magic back to this Realm also? All it needed was one dragon to make a difference.

Well, Spyro had taken the role of the single dragon before. Who was to say he couldn't do it again.


	7. Chapter 7

(OK, I lied. There's one more chapter after this.)

* * *

Nestor wasn't expecting letters from the other leaders to come flying through his front door so soon.

The Artisan elder had eventually admitted defeat at the hands of the foreman from Idol Springs in his efforts to teach them how to craft idols _without_ them coming to life; he collected his pay and swiftly moved on to the next horizon. He had been tentatively hopeful that some minor progress was being made, but after finding out that some of the more… _creative_ foreman had been fashioning a small army of wooden hula girls for their own entertainment, which then broke loose and beat the apparently chauvinistic men up in a display that would have impressed even the strongest Peace Keeper. He had hedged his bets and bounced while the going was good.

His intentions were to travel to the volcanic Molten Crater and study their tiki heads next, but the unplanned reunion with Spyro had filled him with a scalding homesickness. Nestor hadn't realised how much his scaly heart ached for the boundless green pastures of the Artisan Homeworld, the sweeping spires of the castles, the gentle singing of the riverbeds. The worlds of Avalar and the Forgotten Realms held wonders beyond his imagination and he was loathe to pass such an opportunity up, but his mind still turned to the simple and humble pleasures of the Homeworld that had raised him.

The emerald dragon was caught off guard when he arrived to his home in Stone Hill to find a letter posted through his front door, presumably having been delivered even before he had returned. The parchment was neatly folded and was sealed with wax that shifted from pink to blue in the light; there was only one dragon Nestor knew who would enclose his letters in such an extravagant manner. The only way the Magic Crafter elder would have gotten this letter to the Artisan Homeworld before Nestor himself had arrived meant he had probably rejected Spyro's request.

Nestor felt heaviness in his heart at this realisation, but he wasn't overly surprised. Cosmos had defiantly refused to accept any apprentices regardless of the incessant pestering of the other leaders, so when Nestor had written the letter addressed to the seafoam green elder he hadn't been too optimistic at the outcome. He could see the other elders being open minded enough to consider the proposition – especially Titan, who had been nagging him for this opportunity for years – but Cosmos in particular was exceptionally stubborn and pompous. Nestor prayed that Spyro's resolve hadn't been shaken by the refusal.

Opening the tightly sealed letter, he was blasted in the face by a multitude of flames erupting from the wax.

Holding the parchment at his arm's maximum length he swatted away the sparks. Cosmos must be **very** unhappy for him to trap the letter with a spell, even thought it was clearly not intended to cause harm. More so, it was a direct reflection of Cosmos' feelings towards the green Artisan. Waiting until the shower of sparks ceased, Nestor puffed in irritation and unfurled the letter.

 _Dear Nestor,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, you preposterous cretin._

As yes, it appeared that Cosmos was as mild mannered as he remembered.

 _It seems more and more these days that one cannot have a single moment of peace to themselves. I find myself struggling with the newly hatched and returned dragon pups only to find, lo and behold, yet another stray dragon pup on my doorstep. As if I was not horribly overworked already, not that you would know what being overworked feels like._

 _I do not know what game you are playing at sending Spyro to me, but whatever you are planning will not come to fruition. The Legend of the Purple Dragon is a myth, nothing more than hearsay, so while you still cling to your rudimentary beliefs we Magic Crafters do not! We look to the future of the Dragon Realms, the next step for magic and for all dragons alike! We shall not dwell upon the repercussions of a prophecy written eons before we were hatched, bleary eyed and stumbling into the world as we were!_

Cosmos' letter continued like this for several lines. Nestor had long taught himself not to be offended by the arrogant elder's insults – sometimes it seemed like Cosmos didn't know how to interact with others in any other fashion. The emerald dragon let the spiteful words wash over him and skipped a good paragraph or so until he could tell that Cosmos had got himself back on track.

 _Anyway, back to what I was saying. Spyro is fortunate that he is owed such a great debt by us all, otherwise I would have sent him away. It is clear to me that he does not possess much in the way of natural talent when it comes to Magic Crafting, however I cannot deny that his capacity for magic is far stronger than would be expected, especially for a dragon that was not born a Magic Crafter himself. His skills are rudimentary, but nothing that a solid course of tutoring and perhaps a boot up his backside couldn't improve on, and I could see him finding success in the future if this is the path he wishes to choose for himself._

 _Lastly, and I must stress that I mean this in the best of faith, I implore you to consider your intentions regarding this whole escapade. I am fully aware that many already believe the Legend of the Purple Dragon is indicative of our purple friend, however no dragon alive today could comprehend what this means for either Spyro himself or the rest of dragon-kind. Spyro is ultimately a child and deserves to have a gentle and conflict-free upbringing, although I am aware that he would disagree with this statement. I feel it may be best to let this ship sail undisturbed._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Cosmos xx_

Nestor grimaced and folded the paper back up. He and Cosmos did not have the best of relations and would never pretend to do more than tolerate each other, but there was no doubt that the emerald dragon held the Magic Crafter elder in high regard. He was a powerful wizard and scholar, possibly even the best of his kind, and was both reliable and reasonable. Mostly. Nestor had counted on him several times before to act as the voice of reason within the Council of Elders, a role which he was more than willing to accept even when it was not asked of him. Or indeed wanted of him.

The two clearly did not share their opinions of the Legend. Cosmos had long dismissed the prophecy as nothing more than a fairy tale, deserving only of inclusion in children's' storybooks, but Nestor still trusted in the magic within the words. It seemed that Cosmos was of the impression that encouraging Spyro to pursue his destiny would be detrimental to his growth as a young dragon, although Nestor believed that it would be instrumental in allowing the purple dragon to come into his own.

Shaking his head in exasperation, he dropped the letter on his desk and unhooked his tool belt. Both the belt and his jacket found their rightful place on a disused and slightly dusty coat hook. The emerald dragon was honestly surprised that Cosmos had even agreed to entertain Spyro's premise to begin with, so it was clear that Nestor was not the only elder of the opinion that the purple dragon had a lot of potential, prophecy or not. He noticed that his beloved succulent collection had turned a little yellow in his absence, and growled to himself. He should stop spending so much time worrying and focus on his duties as the leader of the Artisans. He had been away for far too long.

The nest letter found its way to him the following day.

Nestor had been assaulted almost immediately by Delbin, one of his closest confidants, who insisted that he accompany the ruby dragon to Sunny Flight to watch the hatchlings train. He wasn't sure if this was to witness how far the young dragons had come in his absence, or just to have a good chuckle over how many times they landed with their faces, but he had consented none the less. Observing the small dragons soar through the flight stage while narrowly avoiding mid-air collisions with each other had sent the elder dragon back to his memories of his own youth; the dragon pups would only face-plant into the ground so many times. It was amazing how quickly a dragon would learn when the only other option was to injure themselves.

While the two older dragons had sat on a grassy outcrop and placed bets on how long it would take before one of them wiped out in the shimmering blue ocean below, Nestor had been approached by a messenger fairy, desperately trying to keep afloat in the air with a large satchel bag over one shoulder. She had quickly handed the dragon a rolled scroll tied with a gold ribbon before teleporting away, clearly wanting to relive herself of the heavy burden. Nestor unfurled the scroll, feeling Delbin reading it over his shoulder, and inspected the contents. Thankfully, no fireworks this time.

 _Oi, old man!_

 _I see you finally changed your mind! Maybe you haven't gone senile after all!_

Well, there was only one leader who would speak to him in such a manner. Nestor snorted; Titan was only about a century his junior, but he spoke like Nestor was about to keel over from old age at any second.

 _Thanks for sending Spyro over to me, I was hoping to keep him but it seems like he didn't want to hang around too long. I'm sure he'll have plenty of stories to tell you when he gets back. He's still a little too young to behave in the way we would need of him, but give him a couple of years and I'll gladly take him off your hands! He would make a fine Peace Keeper._

 _Now, that being said, the letter you sent with him worries me a little. And I don't_ ** _like_** _feeling worried, Nestor. There have been enough attempts to train any dragon born with purple scales in the hope that they would reveal themselves to be the dragon of the Legend, and all have failed. I've sat through enough of Asher's lectures on the subject to know that first hand. I'm convinced that the Legend isn't true, and even if it_ ** _is_** _true then it doesn't ultimately matter. Just let the kid do what he wants._

 _Also, can you send over some more of your weapons please? The Gnorcs keep getting into our stock and we're running low._

 _Thanks in advance!_

 _Titan_

"Sounds like Spyro's having fun, eh?" Delbin remarked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Nestor shook his head and rolled the scroll back up, slipping it into his tool belt. Titan was the youngest leader and it showed sometimes – although his prowess in battle and his ability to strategise had no peer, the green dragon couldn't help but feel a little insulted by the casual nature of his letter. He couldn't deny that the cocky leader was correct in some regards – Astor could talk for hours about the intense training he had endured after hatching when it was discovered that he shared the same scale hue as the dragon of lore.

Then again, Astor could talk for hours about anything.

For all Nestor wasn't surprised that the Peace Keeper leader had jumped at the opportunity to teach Spyro, he _was_ surprised that he was recommending that the purple dragon mature for a couple years before proceeding, as if he was some kind of fine wine or cheese. Titan had practically grovelled at Nestor's feet in the past, hopeful for even a single chance to mould Spyro into a soldier, so the remark that he didn't believe that the dragon pup was ready for his teachings was very out of character. He didn't know that Titan was able to even comprehend the idea of maturity.

The penultimate letter arrived two days later.

Nestor had found himself drowning in a deep sense of anxiety when a letter failed to find its way to his front door on the third day. He would deny it to anyone who asked, but the idea of Spyro encountering any kind of difficulties on his trip filled him with dread, especially when Nestor had approved of the idea to begin with. The emerald scaled dragon felt a degree of responsibility for the young dragon, even though he knew he could look after himself just fine, so the lack of news had rattled his nerves a little.

Swigging down a bottle of iridescent sleep potion designed to fill his dreams with peace and relaxation, he awoke later than planned to find another letter stuck in his letter box, stained a suspicious green colour from some unknown nasty looking fluid. Nestor practically threw himself out of bed with his sheets tangled in his wings, noting that it was almost midday, and grasped at the letter, hoping for nothing but good news.

 _Nestor,_

 _Hello. I hope you are well. Please keep off the sleep potions._

Nestor grumbled and massaged his brow bone, the beginnings of a headache starting to form from oversleeping.

 _Spyro came to speak to me. I_ ** _hope_** _you're not trying to use him to get to the Beast Maker secrets. You know that won't work. He's made of tough stuff, but I'm not teaching him jack about our magic. Especially not if you sent him._

 _The Legend of the Purple Dragon is not a good thing. How do you feel knowing that a dragon will come along who can do what we can but do it ten times better? Doesn't that make you concerned for our future? It's better to leave things as they are. Spyro's a good kid – don't involve him in this._

 _Bruno_

Nestor snarled and roughly clambered back into bed, pulling his sheets over his eyes to block out the piercing sunlight. He hadn't used a Dream Weaver potion in a long time, not since he left the Dragon Realms to go adventuring through Avalar and the Forgotten Realms, so had forgotten how much of a headache they gave him. The green dragon refused to become dependent on them like so many others were, preferring to keep his senses sharp, but a good night's sleep was more than worth the inevitable discomfort that came with it.

Bruno was never known for his eloquence, the swampy elder coming across as abrupt or unkind even when it wasn't intentional. Nestor was almost certain that he was doing it intentionally in this case. Beast Makers were renowned for being superstitious to the point of paranoia, so for all Nestor's intentions had been misinterpreted he wasn't particularly amazed to hear that Bruno had interpreted Spyro's visit as an assault on their secretive way of life. Nor was he surprised to learn that Spyro hadn't been gifted knowledge of any of their magic.

At least at didn't sound like Bruno had sent the purple dragon packing with nothing to show for his visit. The large-horned elder's abrasive personality scared a lot of dragon pups, and Nestor knew the he appreciated that Spyro didn't see him as just an angry old man shouting at clouds. Not that he would ever admit that out loud. Rolling over in bed he blocked the glaring sun rays with his back and covered his head with one of his wings. Just a couple more minutes.

The final letter arrived on the fourth day.

Recovered from his migraine, Nestor had ventured out into the Realm with the intent to work on some of the bureaucratic drudgery that had piled up in his absence. Artisans had a stereotype of being unreliable, preferring to spend their time slaving over their individual arts instead of buckling down and dealing with the more unpleasant work, which Nestor couldn't necessarily disagree with. He knew he fit that mould and would much rather craft a fine oak table than fill in forms any day, but someone had to do it.

The Artisan leader was attempting to resolve a dispute occurring between Devlin and Alvar taking place in Town Square, both of whom had caught wind of Spyro's endeavours and were preparing a feast to celebrate his return. Oh, and Nestor's return too, they supposed. For all the two dragons shared very similar professions, it was almost impossible to get the duo to work together. They two just couldn't see eye to eye, arguing over whether a large multi-tiered cake or a barbecued hog roast would be more to the purple dragon's tastes. Neither dragon considered that Spyro would eat just about anything thrown at him without complaint.

Nestor had tried his best to diffuse the situation, but neither chef was interested in listening to an opinion that didn't fortify their own stance on the matter. The emerald dragon was almost relieved when the same messenger fairy approached him with another letter, seemingly more upset than before at being made to lug around two oversized letters. This one was folded neatly and carried a faint smell of incense. Ducking out of the kitchen, which was soon to become a battleground, Nestor unfurled the letter and perused the contents.

 _My dear friend Nestor,_

 _Salutations, my good man, best wishes to your health and family. It has been far too long since the two of us have had the time to hold a symposium and the arrival of your esteemed student prompted this letter, so I thought it best to grasp the opportunity by the horns. Considering that the state of our Realms becomes more and more fragile by the year, our friendship also becomes more valuable. Like an antique Bocote cabinet, or the most delectable Artisan wine, or-_

Nestor felt his eyes begin to glaze over. It wasn't just Lateef's potions that could put a dragon to sleep. Blinking and slapping himself lightly he skimmed the rest of the letter, amazed at how many metaphors the Dream Weaver elder could pack into one paragraph.

 _Ah, I do apologise, it seems I may have gone on a tangent again. Back to the matter at hand. You can probably imagine my reprieve upon reading the letter you sent with young Spyro – I am gracious to know that another elder has not forsaken the prophecy written by my ancestors. The others may have turned their backs on the scriptures for fear of the consequences confined within the meaning of the words, but this will only delay the end results, not prevent them._

 _I will be proposing a conjugation of the Council of Elders in due course to discuss this affair, preferably in a civilised manner, although we will have to see how the others deem best to respond. I hope to have your full cooperation in this sense, and I'm certain that Spyro would agree. I doubt that he is unaware of the prophecy at this point, even if efforts were made to protect his young mind from the daunting perils of the future. The Legend of the Purple Dragon cannot and_ ** _will_** _not be allowed to escape our grasp._

 _Oh, and Spyro did well at Dream Weaving. Sorry, my mind grows older and oft allows thoughts to slip through like a sieve. Please forgive me._

 _Yours in all perpetuity,_

 _Lateef_

Oh Lateef, as sesquipedalian as always.

"Does this mean Spyro will be coming back soon?!"

Nestor jumped, startled at the sudden exclamation from behind him while he was deeply focused on the contents of the letter. Both Devlin and Alvar had ceased in their spat and were frantically trying to catch a glimpse of the words on the parchment. Alvar seemed to be covered in large amounts of icing, the feud having turned physical at some point. The duo looked at each other in shock.

"We better start getting ready!" Devlin declared.

The two scattered in a flurry of activity, all qualms with each other thrown to the wind as they began to rapidly prepare. Nestor had never seen so much food produced in such a short amount of time before. He slowly backed away, content to leave the two to their own devices. At least the fighting was over.

Nestor wasn't sure if he considered Lateef to be a 'friend', per se, but out of all the leaders the two got along the easiest. Not that this was really saying much, but the Dream Weaver leader had a fascination with Artisan crafting, and Nestor suspected he was simply happy to speak to a dragon that didn't immediately write him off as being insane. He found that dealing with the royal blue dragon required a lot of patience, especially when it came to his vocabulary, but he was glad to have someone on his side.

Nestor considered his stance on the prophecy. Lateef had taken an almost maniacal stance on the situation, ready to throw himself head first into training Spyro to become the dragon of lore, but the emerald dragon wondered if that was necessary or even a good idea. His mind wandered back to the words of the other elders – Spyro was still a child. Would it be better to allow him to experience a carefree childhood first? Or would it make more sense to reveal his true nature to him while his mind and abilities were still malleable?

That was something that Nestor would leave for another day. Regardless, it seemed that the purple dragon would not keep them waiting for long and preparations would need to be made. He knew that Spyro would not appreciate a fuss being made over him, but the other Artisans were unable to control themselves when it came to celebrations. Nestor could recall more than one occasion that he had needed to pick himself up off the floor in Tree Tops after a heavy night of partying.

Well, if it was true that Spyro would be returning shortly, he supposed he had better make his own preparations.

* * *

Spyro hadn't returned when he was expected to.

Nestor swore the purple dragon was going to give him an aneurysm some day with all the stress he put the elder through. Sparx had touched down in the Artisan Homeworld alone, ferried by Marco who looked a little perplexed that he was shipping a dragonfly without their dragon. Nestor had instinctively feared the worst, although he could think of no logical reason as to why a dragonfly would have abandoned their dragon. Well, he could imagine a couple of reasons, but as his mind ticked over the possibilities the worry in his chest only grew deeper. None of the reasons were good news.

Sparx appeared to be equally concerned, his golden glow flickering in worry. The dragonfly had explained that Spyro had requested that he travel back without him, although the insect didn't know where the purple dragon had ventured to after he had departed on the Balloon. Nestor immediately felt a sense of foreboding sweep over him – he had made the decision not to involve Spyro in the Legends surrounding the colour of his scales until he was old enough, but there was no guarantee that the other leaders had done the same. He had no choice but to consider the possibility that the other leaders had brought the prophecy to the young dragon's attention before the time was right.

Nestor resolved not to allow his fortitude to be shaken. As leader it was his calling to be responsible for the well-being of his kin, but making decisions without Spyro present was unfair on the young dragon. He had just as much a say in his own future than any other dragon above his station. While the other Artisans were sorrowful to hear that Spyro would not be attending the impromptu party, the festivities still proceeded. Very little could come between an Artisan and a celebration.

When Spyro **did** return, Nestor was ashamed to admit that he was a little hung over.

The first thing he noticed was that the dragon pup appeared to be in good spirits. The emerald elder was relieved at this but also a little confused: it may have just been the pounding of his head after spending one too many hours singing karaoke, but the contents of the parchments from the other elders had warned of a sour mood on the horizon. He felt joy knowing that the spunky attitude that the purple dragon was known for had not been extinguished.

The taller dragon allowed a smile to cross his face and wordlessly stepped back to allow the younger dragon to enter his home. Spyro trotted inside, his face flush as the heat indoors warmed his cheeks, to find himself face planted by a hysterical Sparx. The dragonfly whizzed around the purple dragon in a golden blur, somewhere between gratitude that Spyro had returned unharmed and fury that Spyro had left in the first place. The dragon took it in his stride; it was probably what he deserved after everything his best friend went through to protect him.

Nestor let out a puff of flame to boil a pot of water and made the two some herbal tea, kindly provided by Cosmos on one of his scarce good days. Spyro would inevitably turn his nose up at the drink but Nestor felt like he needed something to quell the churning in his stomach. He handed the dragon pup a ceramic mug and sat himself cross-legged on the floor, tucking his tail under himself to keep it warm.

"So," he began, taking a sip of the tea. "It sounds like you have a lot to tell me."

Spyro's face burst into a bright grin, his small fangs glinting in the light, and began to regale the elder with his stories. He explained about his misdemeanours with Magic Crafting, but tactfully left out the giant dinosaur that was probably still wreaking havoc in Cloud Temples. He recounted his adventures in Cliff Town, although Nestor was moderately doubtful that Spyro had used his newfound abilities with Magic Crafting to drop a warhead on the Gnorcs or that Sparx had turned into a kung fu werewolf. He detailed his experience in Misty Bog, covering how he wiped out the Attack Frog threat with explosives, and he relayed his attempts at Dream Weaving although Nestor could tell the purple dragon wasn't telling him the full story with that. He made a mental note to try and pry the facts out of Lateef later.

All the while, Nestor sipped his tea and took in the tale without interruption. It seemed that Spyro had encountered very little resistance on his trip, although he _was_ going to have a word with Bruno when he got the chance – allowing such a young dragon anywhere near explosives was incredibly risky, never mind those damned frogs! As the story drew to a close, the green dragon rested his now empty mug on his tail and turned his attention to the dragon pup.

"It seems like the other leaders were welcoming, at least."

"Yeah," Spyro responded, sitting on his haunches. "The only one who wasn't totally open with me was Bruno. He wouldn't give me any info about what Beast Makers do in the slightest!"

Nestor wasn't shocked to hear this. Out of all the dragons the Beast Makers were by far the most reclusive, and considering that Bruno was already so opposed to the prophecy, Nestor expected nothing less. Still, each leader Spyro approached had offered him some small assistance in their own way.

"Has this cleared up the way you were feeling before?" he questioned, watching Spyro sniff the herbal tea and recoil in disgust.

"I'm… not sure," the purple dragon responded, meekly rubbing the spines on his head. "I'll admit that my impressions about what the other Realms did weren't up to scratch, but I kinda feel even more confused now."

Nestor nodded in pensive thought. He was grateful that he had never experienced the same feeling of self-doubt that the younger dragon was going through, and he honestly couldn't imagine what he would do if he found himself in the same situation. Spyro was too often written off as being nothing more than a hatchling, but even a blind dragon could see that his spirit was strong. Maybe even stronger than his own.

"Nestor?"

Pulled out of his momentary reverie, the emerald dragon blinked and looked back up at Spyro. The purple dragon was gazing up at him expectantly, head cocked to one side.

"Sorry, Spyro," Nestor apologised. "Please, go ahead."

Spyro shuffled back and forth on his feet, trying to get his words in order. The Artisan elder raised one curious eyebrow but said nothing, content to allow the young dragon to speak on his own time.

"So, uhh…" Spyro started, his head turned down. "Do you think the stories about me are true?"

"What stories?" Nestor replied. "You seem to have more stories to tell every time you come home."

Spyro laughed – he supposed this was true.

"The Legend of the Purple Dragon…" he continued. "Do you think it's about me?"

Nestor let out a long weary sigh and sat back on his arms, careful not to allow the ceramic mug to slip and crack against the wooden planks on the floor. He had spent a lot of time over the last few days contemplating how this conversation would pan out, the realisation of Spyro's fate now inevitable, but the letters he had received had caused his stance to waiver. His mind was filled with the words of the other leaders, spinning in his skull like a tornado.

"Spyro," he began carefully. "When Gnasty Gnorc trapped all of us in crystal, did you set out to save us because it was written that you would, or did you do it because you wanted to?"

Spyro watched the older dragon slowly stand up and collect both mugs, the scented liquid remaining in a pool in his own mug going unnoticed in the tense atmosphere. Nestor relocated the mugs to the nearby sink and returned to his stance in front of the young dragon.

"Did you agree to help the denizens of Avalar because you were told you had to, or because it was the right thing to do? When the Sorceress stole our eggs, did you brave the uncharted depths of the Forgotten Realms because it was predicted that you would do so, or because you were the best dragon for the job?"

He paused in his soliloquy to crouch down to the small dragon's level, patting him on the head affectionately.

"There have been many purple dragons before you, and there will be many after you. Whether the path you choose to take is predestined or not, that doesn't take away from the weight of your actions. To me it makes no difference if the Legend refers specifically to you, I imagine that you would have still acted the same regardless."

Spyro considered this for a moment before nodding.

"I guess it's up to me to decide if the Legend is true or not then!"

Nestor felt a burst of fatherly approval radiate in his chest at the young dragon's statement. He did not favour Spyro above any other dragon hatchling, including the most recently born ones, however the notion that a dragon under his care had grown both mentally and spiritually was undeniably pleasing. He extended one hand in a fist bump, which Spyro eagerly returned.

"I just wish there was some other way for me to have learned all this," Spyro mused. "That took me almost a full week."

"Perhaps," Nestor agreed, smiling warmly. "But they say that history is written by the victors. Maybe you could be the one to provide this information to those who find themselves in the same position in the future?"

Now that. That was an interesting thought.

* * *

Nestor remembered when Gnasty Gnorc had launched his first attack.

He was a tiny dragon runt, small in stature and demeanour after hatching before he was due, even his scales dull in colour and sparse against his shoulders. The green dragon pup was raised with love, the accommodating atmosphere of the Artisan Homeworld ideal for raising children, alongside dragons who nurtured a sense of adventure and intellect in their kind. His diminutive size often prevented him from being able to participate in activities with the other hatchlings for fear he would be stepped on, and was often forced to witness events from the sidelines while his more developed brethren blazed ahead.

Nestor was never content with the hand he was dealt. He was grateful that he was not born a Peace Keeper or his size would have made him unfit for battle, but he felt ostracised by his peers none the less. Watching dragon pups the same age as him roam freely through the Realms, catching bugs and going swimming while he was barred from anything that would put his already ailing physique under stress ate away at him inside. Thankfully the Artisans did not put a great deal of weight behind physical prowess.

When the green dragon had reached adolescence he first heard of the Gnorc running rampant throughout the Dragon Realms. There was no clue as to his origins or even his intentions really, but some of the elders were growing concerned. What was previously nothing more than a large lumbering oaf calling himself 'Gnasty' was now quickly gaining support, with bandits and stray thieves swearing their allegiance to the green monster. Those who were no threat on their own before found strength in numbers, and although the goblins could be taken down in one hit easily, dealing with large numbers of them at once would be a task for only the strongest dragon.

The Homeworlds each reacted differently to the impending threat. The Peace Keepers wanted to put together an armed squadron to preemptively vanquish the threat, but the others felt this was a waste of both resources and time that could be better used elsewhere. The Magic Crafters wanted to use magic to seal the Gnorc away, but the actual numbers of the Gnorc's followers were not known so the spell was unlikely to completely eliminate them. The Dream Weavers wanted to sleep, so were mostly ignored. And the Artisans…

Well, the Artisans were content to do nothing at all.

Nestor didn't agree to this decision in the slightest, but it wasn't as if a dragon whelp like him could have a say in such a decision. The Artisans didn't wish to involve themselves, determining that the ongoing peace of the Realm was more important than the troubles that would be brought about by the conflict. They wanted to use their time to craft works of art, cook food with new and bold flavours, write symphonies and vignettes. They did not wish to dirty their hands with the blood of their enemies.

When Gnasty struck for the first time, it was not to be the last.

With every Homeworld holding a different stance on the rising conflict, no action ended up being taken which meant that the seed of dissent had been allowed to grow freely. Nestor did not know where the minions had found the weapons and armour, crude as they were, but the element of surprise was on their side. Throwing themselves over the castle walls of Stone Hill the Gnorcs had attacked during the night and laid their weapons upon the hides of the unsuspecting dragons.

Nestor didn't remember much about the fierce battle that ensued, the hatchlings being whisked away to safety as soon as the fighting begun, but it was clear to even his immature eyes that the dragons were unprepared for such an assault. The armour worn by the monsters did little to deflect horns or fire but this was made up for in sheer numbers. The last he saw before being teleported away to safety was the Artisan leader, a frail old dragon with tattered wings and shaky hands but a mind more creative than any seen before him, throw down his walking cane and shuffle into battle. A captain always goes down with his ship, so to speak.

Nestor did not know what befell the dragons that stayed to fight, but he never saw the leader again.

Now that the threat imposed by the army had revealed itself, clawing it's way into the light with fangs bared, the Council of Elders were able to reach a decision for once in their lives. The Peace Keepers assaulted the army with fire and weapons made of the hardest diamonds known to dragon-kind and crafted by the most experienced Artisans. Once the numbers had been thinned to a manageable amount, the Magic Crafters summoned their most wizened wizards who Crafted a spell powerful enough to contain a brute like Gnasty within its cage for several hundred years. The Gnorc was lured out by the promise of victory and promptly whisked away to the long abandoned Dragon Junk Yard, disappearing in an explosion of purple light. The elders relented that the loss of the sixth Dragon Realm was an acceptable casualty.

What was briefly the darkest time in dragon history became an age of hope. While Nestor had never really developed the strength of his peers, preferring to rely of the strength of his charisma instead, the attack had inadvertently formed a bond of brotherhood between the once distant Dragon Realms. The inaction of the worlds had almost cost them everything they held dear, and they would not permit this to happen again.

Nestor was unhappy with what the Artisans stood for. He didn't deny that combat was not exactly something anyone would trust a playwright with, but the inaction of his superiors had cost the dragons their lives. The Artisans suffered under the stereotype of being unreliable which the emerald dragon had always detested, but now he could understand why others felt this way.

Rather than feeling defeated or disqualified by this realisation, Nestor vowed to change himself. If he wanted other dragons to see the Artisans as something _other_ than lazy and good-for-nothing, he first needed to reflect this in himself. Even after he found his calling as a carpenter he kept his creed in mind, pushing for motivation within his community to encourage change.

He swore under his name as leader that no Artisan under his rule would allow their inaction to taint their name again.


	8. Epilogue

(And that's a wrap. Thank you to everyone who came on this journey with me, especially to all those who took the time out of their day to leave a review. The support I've received writing this has been overwhelming, and I can't express how grateful I am. I hope you decide to stick around - this story might be over but I hope that this will not be the end. The story ended up being 45,663 words and I'm not even kidding, so thanks to everyone who bothered to get this far!

Also, a pat on the back to anyone who notices the hidden reference in this chapter. Sorry, I couldn't help myself lol)

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Nestor had found himself in this situation many times before.

The emerald green Artisan leader was perhaps not so emerald green any more, his old age having finally caught up to him and tinted his scales with a reflective silver hue. More and more he found himself relying on a cane to keep his spine upright, able to hobble short distances unaided but standing for long periods of time made his legs quiver with the strain. His eyesight had deteriorated to the point where he had to wear glasses thick enough to beat a Gnorc to death with, but even though his body was past his prime Nestor still didn't feel a day over 100 years old.

Well, that's what he told himself anyway. His joints would probably disagree with him.

Smiling to himself, the Artisan leader folded the corner of the page he was perusing to keep his place and snapped the cover of the tome closed, the magic sewn into the thread of the purple velvet cover weaving together and locking the book from prying eyes. He gently slipped the book back into its rightful home on the shelf of the bookcase, the gap created by its absence a perfect mould of it's form due to how tightly packed the shelf was. He grasped the jewel-encrusted head of his cane in one hand and used it to steady his stance as he turned to face his guest.

Kage would describe himself as self-assured, zesty, and a natural born leader, but his peers would probably describe him as arrogant and brutish. The small dragon hatched maybe only one or two clutches ago, although he walked around the Homeworld like he was five times his size and with an ego to match. His pastel blue scales almost glowed with the pale moonlight falling upon the grass of Dark Hollow, and the tip of a second pair of horns behind his existing pair peeked through the skin on his scalp. Accompanying him was his dragonfly, who constantly emitted a light pink glow except when she stood in for any damage that the young dragon took. And Kage took a _lot_ of damage in his various over-the-top schemes. His dragonfly was very patient.

"You seem to be very certain about this," Nestor pondered, gazing down the glasses balanced on the pit of his snout at the young dragon. Kage puffed out his chest in response.

"Yep!" he declared boldly. "I wanna be like those heroes in all the stories you told me. I wanna fight some bad guys and kick some butt, and I can't do that here! Please, let me train with the Peace Keepers!"

Nestor snorted in amusement and grinned widely. The aging elder had heard many stories about the young dragon in question from his tutors; most were concerned about his lack of self-preservation when it came to throwing himself horns first into any trouble he could get his claws on. Only last week he and a couple of his clutch-mates had been given a month of kitchen patrol after they were found terrorising the sheep in Toasty to see how many they could stack on top of each other before the improvised totem pole collapsed.

The sky blue dragon's request was not completely unique. Nestor was reminded of another dragon, small for his age but full of spirit who had made an eerily similar request many years prior. Although the intentions behind the two appeals were worlds apart, with Kage seemingly looking for glory rather than for self-realisation, Nestor still felt a wave of nostalgia roll over him. Cosmos would tell him that he was just becoming soft in his old age, but he found that rejecting the pleas of any dragon pup almost caused him physical pain.

"Well, Kage," he laughed, "I must say you seem to have thought a lot about this!"

Kage nodded eagerly and tried to puff his chest out even further to prove his might in an attempt to convince the elder to approve of his demands.

"But right now, I must decline your request."

The dragon pup deflated as quickly as he had puffed himself up.

"Aww, come on! Pleeeeease…" he whined nasally, tail flicking in irritation.

Nestor ignored the pleading dragon pup and turned back to the oak bookshelf behind him. He leaned in to try and get his eyes to focus on the spines of the books, his nose grazing the violet velvet lining as he scanned the shelf for one particular volume. Locating the book he was looking for, he carefully wiggled it out of its position, fearing that any sudden movements may cause the whole precarious collection to fall down on top of him. As the book broke free of the pile the others filled in the space left behind, swallowing the gap as if it was never there. Nestor really needed to build a new bookshelf for all of these.

"Firstly," he began, turning back to the blue dragon pup. "The Peace Keepers are not heroes like in your stories. They are normal dragons, just like you and I, and very _busy_ dragons at that. I cannot simply ask them to stop in their patrols and take the time to tutor you when they may already be engaged with something else."

Kage groaned heavily, realising that he was maybe being a little forward and dropped his head in shame. He had spent so many late nights lying awake dreaming of taking to the skies and bridging the gaps between the Dragon Realms with fire on his wings and in his heart that he had not considered needing the consent of more than just the Artisan elder.

"Secondly," Nestor continued. "Your teacher told me that you haven't been turning in your assignments on time. There is no way I could justify interrupting your existing studies for another venture without trust that you would not fall behind in the meantime."

"But-" Kage tried to protest only to be silenced by a single palm held out by Nestor.

"And thirdly," he surmised. "You still have one week of your kitchen patrol to finish, yes?"

Kage reluctantly grumbled and shuffled his feet meekly before relenting. The green dragon shook his head – he had always detested the mindset that so many of his own elders took regarding children. He had suffered through many rants from the other leaders about how children these days didn't have enough respect, or enough drive, or didn't turn the lights off when they left a room. The last thing Nestor wanted was to replicate such a toxic mindset in his own actions. He had vowed several centuries ago that he would not expect anyone else to hold a virtue unless he himself demonstrated the same in his own actions, and this stance had not changed.

"That being said," Nestor stated, crouching down to the level of the smaller dragon, "It takes a lot of guts to approach your superior and ask to be transferred elsewhere, and I applaud that. Very few dragons could find the strength of spirit to defend their ideals in the face of opposition, including those older than you are."

Kage looked up in tentative optimism to find Nestor presenting him with a book he had never seen before. Reaching out he gently took it from the grasp of the emerald elder and ran his claws over the cover. The tome was bound with royal purple velvet that left trails every time his palms ran across the surface, and was lined with golden thread that seemed to reflect rainbows when the light of the full moon bounced off the surface. The book screamed opulence as if it was only fit for the touch of a king. Kage felt a little humbled simply by being allowed to hold the pages within his grasp, an emotion which was amplified ten fold when his eyes took in the name of the author.

"…S-Spyro the Dragon?" he stuttered, eyes wide in awe. "The _Chronicler?!_ "

Nestor allowed a slight chuckle to escape under his breath. Spyro would never let him live it down if he found out that dragons were calling him by that moniker. For all the nickname was decidedly fitting for his profession, the purple dragon had cringed every time the name was used to refer to him. Nestor had never discovered the true reason for this and was content to respect the dragon's wishes, although the same could not be said for the legions of fans that religiously followed his every move.

"That's the one," the emerald dragon replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Many years ago, Spyro approached me with a similar request. He was barely older than a hatchling at the time, probably about the same size as you are now, and he ventured across all the Dragon Realms and beyond to find his true calling. When he discovered his purpose, he collated all the information he had gathered on his journey and wrote it down for the generations to come."

Nestor stood back up tall, fervently ignoring the aching pain shooting down his back at the movement, and centered his weight on his cane. Kage had not looked away from the exquisite cover of the book as if it was an illusion and would vanish into thin air if he let it out of his sight.

"You see, the worlds are not as black and white as we once believed they were. Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else, and Spyro knew this better than any other dragon I've ever met."

Kage stared up at the Artisan leader with a look of shock in his eyes.

"Is it really OK for me to have this?" he questioned quietly, the weight of the situation beginning to fall on him.

"I mean, you need to return it when you're done…" Nestor replied. "Tell you what, if you finish your kitchen patrol _and_ hand your next project in on time, I'll speak to Titan and try and sort something out. But I need your word on this."

Kage managed to tear himself away from the cover of the book to look upwards at the taller dragon. Spyro was an idol to him – a dragon who was born an Artisan but had found his calling travelling the worlds on a never-ending adventure, dragonfly in hand, kicking all kinds of butt. Kage would've given his right wing to have a chance to meet the purple dragon and shake his hand even once. The pastel blue dragon's eye wandered from the face of the green elder towards the bookshelf that he had retrieved the tome from.

Dark Hollow was known for it's extensive collection of literature of all varieties, with bookcases reaching from the floor to the ceiling and crammed into every available corner, but this was something else.

The bookshelf was practically bursting at the seams, stuffed to capacity with identical velvet lined books that threatened to spill out at any moment. The spines betrayed their contents, with books covering the arts of Magic Crafting and Dream Weaving, bestiaries from Realms he had never even heard of, advanced flying techniques, it seemed that everything Kage could think of could be found somewhere within the words. He even spotted several volumes covering the elusive Beast Maker magic. Just how many of these had Spyro written?!

Nestor waited patiently as Kage continued to stare blankly. He wondered if maybe giving him a book written by his idol had been too much for the young dragon. His dragonfly rolled her eyes and nudged him with her head. The pastel blue dragon shook himself out of his stupor and stood on his hind legs and gave a salute.

"Aye aye sir!"

"That's what I wanted to hear!" Nestor laughed. "If you ever run into Spyro make sure to tell him that you read his books. His reaction is always hilarious."

Nestor raised an eyebrow as the young troublemaker scampered off, energetically regaling his dragonfly with details of the purple dragon's various adventures that she had probably heard a million times before. The Artisan elder adjusted the glasses balanced on the end of his nose and turned his attention back to the shelf behind him. He was lucky if Spyro returned to the lush green pastures of his birthplace even once a month, appearing unannounced and arriving on an airship alongside one of the many Balloonists. Nestor wondered how many Balloonists had taken up the mantle after hearing tales of how they were instrumental in the purple dragon's quest to save the Dragon Realms from Gnasty.

It seemed like Spyro left an impact on everyone who came into contact with him.

The purple dragon was undoubtedly busy but Nestor was touched that he took the time to visit the aging elder. The two would sit and talk for hours, herbal tea in hand, while Spyro would reel off all the new worlds he had discovered and the enemies he had taken down along the way. He spoke of deserts encroached by freezing tundras, lands where stew spewed from volcanoes like lava, and worlds where the moon was less than an hour's flight away and gravity was nothing more than a fleeting thought. Some worlds had never met a dragon before, and some didn't even know they existed in the first place. Somehow, the dragon always found his way back home.

Nestor had repeatedly attempted to convince Spyro to take the role of Artisan leader so he could step down, but the purple dragon had declined every time with that deep bellowing laugh of his. He had found the freedom he craved in the skies of uncharted lands and the oceans of uninhabited realms. He was on the sidelines of every war, the peak of every mountain, the depth of every chasm with his dragonfly on his shoulder and his pen in his hand. No, he would not give his dream up for the world. Nestor couldn't blame him - if he didn't take such a long time getting his stiffening body out of bed in the morning he would have considering joining the duo on their excursions.

Speaking of Sparx, Nestor was surprised to find the golden dragonfly was still with them on every visit. Most insects didn't live beyond a dragon's adolescence, dying of inevitable old age just as their dragon was grown enough to no longer need their support, but Sparx had remained. Sure, he couldn't fly very well and mostly rode around on Spyro's shoulder, but his longevity was staggering. Nestor wondered if the roles had reversed – Sparx's role once was to keep Spyro alive and kicking using his magic to shield him from harm, but perhaps Spyro's own vast magic reserves was now doing the same for his friend. The two had described themselves as inseparable and Nestor didn't doubt them did one second.

The duo would bring stacks and stacks of notebooks and loose paper with them every time they returned, sometimes required two or more Balloonists to make the journey home to carry the avalanche of documents. Nestor would read over the paper while Spyro redrew his sketches, recording them in almost lifelike detail in charcoal as if the monsters could reach out of the page and attack at any moment. The purple dragon had once attempted that exact feat using a spell he had Crafted, finally finding an equilibrium between the use of Sigils and his own natural talent, which had allowed him to draw pictures that actually moved as if they were real. This ended when some of the Gnorcs he drew for his volume on Gnorc Gnexus escaped the pages of the book and attempted to wage a war against the stationary illustrations in Darius's copy of Pride and Prejudice. Spyro might be an adult now, but he never grew out of his tendency for getting himself into trouble.

Once the mounds of paper had been looked over they were passed into the eager hands of Oswin, who had found no shortage of work since Spyro had started his quest. The pages were collated, bound and sealed within each tome and somehow squeezed into the bulging confines of Spyro's dedicated bookshelf. Together with the numerous copies that had been distributed throughout the other Dragon Realms there were likely enough books written by the purple dragon to outnumber the entire population of the Realms and then some. Nestor had always promised he would dig out his old hammer and chisel, long disused since his hands had become too shaky to reliably craft anything of value, and would one day get around to making a second bookshelf. The amethyst dragon would always playfully tease the elder about this, but his duties as leader always kept his hands full.

Shaking his head at the thought, Nestor began his slow shuffle back to Stone Hill. His body became weaker every day and sometimes it took him a moment to get going if he stood still for too long, but his mind was as sharp as ever and clung to every piece of information it could grasp. Years worth of carpentry techniques still sung in his brain, desperate for one more chance to express themselves in a piece that the emerald dragon could call his final magnum opus, but he knew such delicate work was beyond his capabilities now. Instead, he fed his prowess into his apprentice, a sprightly dragon with horns curled like a ram, who could at least hold a chisel without the worry of taking someone's eye out.

Every visit from Spyro ended the same way.

For all the purple dragon now stood over a head taller than Nestor these days, a fact which Spyro was more than happy to bring up at any opportunity, the Artisan elder still felt a great deal of responsibility for his well-being. Spyro's abilities far outweighed his own in almost every way but Nestor couldn't help but wish he was able to assist in their ventures in a more direct manner. After his latest book was completed, Spyro had inevitably left the Realm looking towards the horizon for his next adventure. Nestor offered the proposition again, requesting that he replace him as leader of the Artisans, and Spyro would refuse again. He would throw his signature carefree smirk over one shoulder, offer a wave, and always left with the same advice.

"Aim high in life, but watch out for flying boxes!"

Nestor still had no idea what he was talking about.

Upon reaching his home he set his cane down by his desk, slipping it into the wooden basket alongside the dozen others. When Nestor had finally admitted that his age was starting to catch up with him he decided to use it to his advantage rather than allow it to hold him back, which manifested in his teachings. Invariably the first task he assigned to any prospective students was to craft a cane using any materials or techniques they liked. Not every cane had turned out to be... _functional_ , some not even resembling canes at _all_ in their design, but every tool was a reflection of the personality of its creator. He was sure some of his former students would die of embarrassed if they knew he kept a hold of their failed implements, but a dragon's first crafted tool was just as valuable as their last and Nestor still felt joy looking back at where they had started their journeys and swung how far they had come.

Besides, it was always fun to break them out at birthday parties. They made good blackmail material.

Removing his jacket, he moved to hang it on it's usual hook as he did every night, but hesitated for the first time in years. His old tool belt still hung on the hook, the tan leather slightly dusty and ill-fitting after years of disuse, but still in its rightful place where it had resided since he picked up the chisel for the first time. Nestor couldn't remember the last time he had donned his gadgets and carved something that he could call his own. He had resigned himself to the limitations caused by his old age, but his heart still yearned to express itself in the only way it knew how.

Even after all these years, Spyro couldn't give him a moment of peace. Maybe it was about time that he made that bookshelf he kept putting off.

Unknown to the elder, the pastel blue dragon was huddled under his bed sheets in his dorm, his face daintily illuminated by the soft pink glow of his slumbering dragonfly. Even while she slept, exhausted after a day of listening to Kage ramble on about the unbelievable exploits of the purple dragon, she still gave off enough of a subtle glow to light up his surroundings, and Kage was far too excited to sleep. He kept running his hands over the cover of the book, feeling the soft velvet caress the skin between his claws and giggling quietly. The book claimed to detail Peace Keeper strategies, covering formations and attack patterns that Kage hoped he could memorise. When Nestor finally caved in and gave him what he wanted the Peace Keepers would be so impressed!

Careful not to disturb his snoozing friend he flipped the book to read the blurb on the back. The words were sewn into the fabric of the book cover with the same golden thread that lined the edges, illuminated just barely enough by the gleam emitting from his dragonfly to be legible.

 _This book is dedicated to anyone who felt like they didn't belong. May the strength of your spirit guide you to your final destination, however long your journey may be._

 _This book is also dedicated to Nestor. Thank you for putting up with me all these years._

Snorting in an attempt to hold in a giggle, he turned the book back over. He still couldn't believe that he was in possession of a piece of work created by the legendary purple dragon, the Chronicler himself! He was a little star struck. His mind filled with thoughts of prancing across the endless plains of Dry Canyon and climbing the dunes of Cliff Town, he licked his lips in anticipation, braced himself, and finally opened to the first page.

And began to read.


End file.
